THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


SALT-WATER 
POEMS  AND  BALLADS 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

HBW  YORK   •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO  •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA  •    SAN   FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON  •    BOMBAY  •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LT». 

TORONTO 


The  foremast  broke ;  its  mighty  bulk  of  steel 
Fell  on  the  f'c'sle  door  and  jammed  it  tight; 

The  sand-rush  heaped  her  to  an  even  keel, 

She  settled  down,  resigned,  she  made  no  fight, 


SALT-WATER 
POEMS  AND  BALLADS 


BY 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

CHAS.  PEARS 


Copyright,  1913,  by  Harper  and  Brothers. 

Copyright,  1914,  by  The  Century  Co.,  and  by  The  McClure  Publications. 


COPYRIGHT,  1912, 1913,  1914, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


All  rights  reserved  —  no  part  of  this  book  may  be  reproduced 
in  any  form  without  permission  in  writing  from  the  publisher, 
except  by  a  reviewer  who  wishes  to  quote  brief  passages  in 
connection  with  a  review  written  for  inclusion  in  magazine  or 
newspaper. 


COPYRIGHT,  1916, 
BY  JOHN  MASEFIELD. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  October,  1916.    Reprinted 
November,  1916;  September,  19*4. 

Reissued  January,  1926.     Reprinted  March,  1927;  September, 
1928;  September,  1930;  September,  1932 ;  October,  1934. 
Reissued  October,  1936. 


>  PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OP  AMERICA  • 


College 
Library 

PR 


CONTENTS 

SALT-WATER  BALLADS 

PAGE 

A  CONSECRATION 3 

THE  YARN  OF  THE  «  LOCH  ACHRAY  ' 5 

SING  A  SONG  o'  SHIPWRECK 9 

BURIAL  PARTY 13 

BILL 15 

FEVER  SHIP 16 

FEVER-CHILLS 17 

ONE  OF  THE  BO'SUN'S  YARNS 20 

HELL'S  PAVEMENT 25 

SEA-CHANGE 26 

HARBOUR  BAR 28 

THE  TURN  OF  THE  TIDE 30 

ONE  OF  WALLY'S  YARNS 33 

A  VALEDICTION  (LIVERPOOL  DOCKS)      .        .        .        .        .       .36 

A  NIGHT  AT  DAGO  TOM'S 38 

PORT  OF  MANY  SHIPS 4° 

CAPE  HORN  GOSPEL  —  I 42 

CAPE  HORN  GOSPEL  —  II 44 

MOTHER  CAREY 46 

EVENING  —  REGATTA  DAY 48 

A  VALEDICTION 49 

A  PIER-HEAD  CHORUS 51 

V 


1052116 


vi  CONTENTS 


THE  GOLDEN  CITY  OF  ST.  MARY 53 

TRADE  WINDS 54 

SEA-FEVER 55 

A  WANDERER'S  SONG 56 

CARDIGAN  BAY 57 

CHRISTMAS  EVE  AT  SEA 58 

A  BALLAD  OF  CAPE  ST.  VINCENT 60 

THE  TARRY  BUCCANEER 62 

A  BALLAD  OF  JOHN  SILVER 64 

LYRICS  FROM  'THE  BUCCANEER' 66 

D'AvALos'  PRAYER 68 

SEA  PICTURES 

FROM  Philip  the  King 71 

FROM  Dattber 79 

FROM  Biography 116 

SALT-WATER  POEMS 

THE  SHIP  AND  HER  MAKERS 121 

THE  NEW  BEDFORD  WHALER 123 

CARGOES 124 

CAPTAIN  STRATTON'S  FANCY 125 

THIRD  MATE 127 

POSTED  AS  MISSING 128 

SHIPS 129 

ROADWAYS 133 

THE  "WANDERER" 135 

THE  RIVER 146 

GLOSSARY  161 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS   IN   COLOR 

The  foremast  broke Frontispiece 

FACING  PACK 

"  Lord,  what  a  handsome  ship  she  be  ! "  .  .  .  .  4 
It  blew  like  the  Bull  of  Barney,  a  beast  of  a  breeze  .  .  .16 
'N'  the  ninth  night  out,  in  the  middle-watch,  I  woke  from  a 

pleasant  dream 20 

Yonder,  round  and  ruddy,  is  the  mellow  old  moon  ...  54 

Out  beyond  the  sunset,  could  I  but  find  the  way      ...  58 

I  must  down  to  the  seas  again,  to  the  lonely  sea  and  the  sky    .  72 

The  bursting  west  was  like  an  opening  flower          ...  80 

So  the  night  passed,  but  then  no  morning  broke     ...  90 

They  heard  the  launch  men  shout 114 

Came  to  an  anchor  near  us  on  the  flood 130 

"  Put  back  with  all  her  sails  gone,"  went  the  word  .        .        .  138 


vii 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS  IN  BLACK 
AND  WHITE 

PAGE 

Then  a  fierce  squall  struck  the  '  Loch  Achray '         .       facing  8 

'Well,  I  clambers  acrost  o'  the  keel  V  I  gets  me  secured         .  n 

'  We  rigged  up  a  tackle,  a  purchase,  a  sort  of  a  shift '      facing  12 

He  tottered  out  of  the  alleyway  with  cheeks  the  colour  of  paste  18 

They  towed  her  in  to  Liverpool,  we  made  the  hooker  fas\.  facing  24 
'  Goneys  an1  gullies  an1  all  o1  the  birds  o'  the  sea '   .         .         -27 

I  shall  hear  the  blocks  a-grunting  in  the  bumpkins  overside     .  31 

The  watch  was  up  on  the  topsail-yard  a-making  fast  the  sail    .  34 

A  Valediction  (Liverpool  Docks)    ....       facing  36 

Oh  yesterday,  I  t'ink  it  was,  while  cruisin'  down  the  street  facing  40 

On  the  passage  home  one  morning           .         .         .        facing  44 

Jake  was  a  dirty  Dago  lad,  an'  he  gave  the  skipper  ^va.  facing  48 

The  bow-wash  is  eddying,  spreading  from  the  bows         .         .  50 

She'll  log  a  giddy  seventeen  and  rattle  out  the  reel ...  52 
I  must  down  to  the  seas  again,  for  the  call  of  the  running 

tide facing  62 

And  first  I'll  hear  the  sea-wind,  the  mewing  of  the  gulls  facing  66 

He  struck  a  ringbolt  in  his  haste  and  fell —     .         .        facing  98 

Lashing  the  sea,  and  gasps  came,  and  hearts  sickened     .         .  117 

And  probing  at  the  well,  the  captain  found      .         .       facing  152 

And  instantly  a  panic  took  the  crew        .         .        .       facing  158 


SALT-WATER  BALLADS 


A  CONSECRATION 

NOT  of  the  princes  and  prelates  with  periwigged  charioteers 
Riding  triumphantly  laurelled  to  lap  the  fat  of  the  years,  — 
Rather   the  scorned  —  the   rejected  —  the   men   hemmed  in 
with  the  spears; 

The  men  of  the  tattered  battalion  which  fights  till  it  dies, 
Dazed  with  the  dust  of  the  battle,  the  din  and  the  cries, 
The  men  with  the  broken  heads  and  the  blood  running  into 
their  eyes. 

Not  the  be-medalled  Commander,  beloved  of  the  throne, 
Riding  cock-horse  to  parade  when  the  bugles  are  blown, 
But  the  lads  who  carried  the  koppie  and  cannot  be  known. 

Not  the  ruler  for  me,  but  the  ranker,  the  tramp  of  the  road, 
The  slave  with  the  sack  on  his  shoulders  pricked  on  with  the 

goad, 
The  man  with  too  weighty  a  burden,  too  weary  a  load. 

The  sailor,  the  stoker  of  steamers,  the  man  with  the  clout, 
The  chantyman  bent  at  the  halliards  putting  a  tune  to  the 

shout, 

The  drowsy  man  at  the  wheel  and  the  tired  lookout. 

3 


4  SALT-WATER   BALLADS 

Others  may  sing  of  the  wine  and  the  wealth  and  the  mirth, 
The  portly  presence  of  potentates  goodly  in  girth;  — 
Mine  be  the  dirt  and  the  dross,  the  dust  and  scum  of  the 
earth  ! 

THEIRS  be  the  music,  the  colour,  the  glory,  the  gold; 
Mine  be  a  handful  of  ashes,  a  mouthful  of  mould. 
Of  the  maimed,  of  the  halt  and  the  blind  in  the  rain  and  the 
cold  — 

Of  these  shall  my  songs  be  fashioned,  my  tales  be  told. 

AMEN. 


"Lord,  what  a  handsome  ship  she  be 
Cheer  her,  sonny  boys,  three  time  three  !" 
And  the  dockside  loafers  gave  her  a  shout 
As  the  red-funneled  tugboat  towed  her  out. 


THE  YARN  OF  THE  'LOCH  ACHRAY' 

THE  'Loch  Achray'  was  a  clipper  tall 

With  seven-and-twenty  hands  in  all. 

Twenty  to  hand  and  reef  and  haul, 

A  skipper  to  sail  and  mates  to  bawl 

'Tally  on  to  the  tackle-fall, 

Heave  now  'n'  start  her,  heave  'n'  pawl!' 

Hear  the  yarn  of  a  sailor, 

An  old  yarn  learned  at  sea. 

Her  crew  were  shipped  and  they  said  'Farewell, 

So-long,  my  Tottie,  my  lovely  gell ; 

We  sail  to-day  if  we  fetch  to  hell, 

It's  time  we  tackled  the  wheel  a  spell.' 

Hear  the  yarn  of  a  sailor, 

An  old  yarn  learned  at  sea. 

The  dockside  loafers  talked  on  the  quay 
The  day  that  she  towed  down  to  sea : 
'Lord,  what  a  handsome  ship  she  be ! 
Cheer  her,  sonny  boys,  three  times  three!' 
And  the  dockside  loafers  gave  her  a  shout 
As  the  red-funnelled  tug-boat  towed  her  out ; 
They  gave  her  a  cheer  as  the  custom  is, 
And  the  crew  yelled  'Take  our  loves  to  Liz  — 
5 


SALT-WATER   BALLADS 

Three  cheers,  bullies,  for  old  Pier  Head 
'N'  the  bloody  stay-at-homes!'  they  said. 
Hear  the  yarn  of  a  sailor, 
An  old  yarn  learned  at  sea. 

In  the  grey  of  the  coming  on  of  night 
She  dropped  the  tug  at  the  Tuskar  Light, 
'N'  the  topsails  went  to  the  topmast  head 
To  a  chorus  that  fairly  awoke  the  dead. 
She  trimmed  her  yards  and  slanted  South 
With  her  royals  set  and  a  bone  in  her  mouth. 
Hear  the  yarn  of  a  sailor, 
An  old  yarn  learned  at  sea. 

She  crossed  the  Line  and  all  went  well, 
They  ate,  they  slept,  and  they  struck  the  bell 
And  I  give  you  a  gospel  truth  when  I  state 
The  crowd  didn't  find  any  fault  with  the  Mate, 
But  one  night  off  the  River  Plate. 
Hear  the  yarn  of  a  sailor, 
An  old  yarn  learned  at  sea. 

It  freshened  up  till  it  blew  like  thunder 
And  burrowed  her  deep,  lee-scuppers  under. 
The  old  man  said,  'I  mean  to  hang  on 
Till  her  canvas  busts  or  her  sticks  are  gone*  — 
Which  the  blushing  looney  did,  till  at  last 
Overboard  went  her  mizzen-mast. 
Hear  the  yarn  of  a  sailor, 
An  old  yarn  learned  at  sea. 


THE  YARN  OF  THE  'LOCH  ACHRAY* 

Then  a  fierce  squall  struck  the  'Loch  Achray* 
And  bowed  her  down  to  her  water-way ; 
Her  main-shrouds  gave  and  her  forestay, 
And  a  green  sea  carried  her  wheel  away ; 
Ere  the  watch  below  had  time  to  dress 
She  was  cluttered  up  in  a  blushing  mess. 
Hear  the  yarn  of  a  sailor, 
An  old  yarn  learned  at  sea. 

She  couldn't  lay-to  nor  yet  pay-off, 
And  she  got  swept  clean  in  the  bloody  trough ; 
Her  masts  were  gone,  and  afore  you  knowed 
She  filled  by  the  head  and  down  she  goed. 
Her  crew  made  seven-and-twenty  dishes 
For  the  big  jack-sharks  and  the  little  fishes, 
And  over  their  bones  the  water  swishes. 
Hear  the  yarn  of  a  sailor, 
An  old  yarn  learned  at  sea. 

The  wives  and  girls  they  watch  in  the  rain 
For  a  ship  as  won't  come  home  again. 
'I  reckon  it's  them  head-winds,'  they  say, 
*  She'll  be  home  to-morrow,  if  not  to-day. 
I'll  just  nip  home  'n'  I'll  air  the  sheets 
'N'  buy  the  fixins  'n'  cook  the  meats 
As  my  man  likes  'n'  as  my  man  eats.' 

So  home  they  goes  by  the  windy  streets, 
Thinking  their  men  are  homeward  bound 


SALT-WATEk  BALLADS 

With  anchors  hungry  for  English  ground, 
And  the  bloody  fun  of  it  is,  they're  drowned ! 
Hear  the  yarn  of  a  sailor, 
An  old  yarn  learned  at  sea. 


Then  a  fierce  squall  struck  the  'Loch  Achray' 
And  bowed  her  down  to  her  water-way ; 
Her  main-shrouds  gave  and  her  forestay, 
And  a  green  sea  carried  her  wheel  away ; 
Ere  the  watch  below  had  time  to  dress 
She  was  cluttered  up  in  a  blushing  mess. 

Hear  the  yarn  of  a  sailor, 

An  old  yarn  learned  at  sea. 


SING  A  SONG  O'  SHIPWRECK 

HE  lolled  on  a  bollard,  a  sun-burned  son  of  the  sea, 
With  ear-rings  of  brass  and  a  jumper  of  dungaree, 
"N'  many  a  queer  lash-up  have  I  seen,'  says  he. 

'But  the  toughest  hooray  o'  the  racket,'  he  says,  Til 

be  sworn, 
'N'  the  roughest  traverse  I  worked  since  the  day  I  was 

born, 
Was  a  packet  o'  Sailor's  Delight  as  I  scoffed  in  the  seas 

o'  the  Horn. 

'All  day  long  in  the  calm  she  had  rolled  to  the  swell, 
Rolling  through  fifty  degrees  till  she  clattered  her  bell ; 
'N'  then  came  snow,  'n'  a  squall,  'n'  a  wind  was  colder 
'n  hell. 

'It  blew  like  the  Bull  of  Barney,  a  beast  of  a  breeze, 
'N'  over  the  rail  come  the  cold  green  lollopin'  seas, 
'N'  she  went  ashore  at  the  dawn  on  the  Ramirez. 

'She  was  settlin'  down  by  the  stern  when  I  got  to  the 

deck, 

Her  waist  was  a  smother  o'  sea  as  was  up  to  your  neck, 
'N'  her  masts  were  gone,  'n'  her  rails,  'n'  she  was  a  wreck. 

9 


io  SALT-WATER   BALLADS 

'We  rigged  up  a  tackle,  a  purchase,  a  sort  of  a  shift, 

To  hoist  the  boats  off  o'  the  deck-house  and  get  them 

adrift, 
When  her  stern  gives  a  sickenin'  settle,  her  bows  give  a 

lift, 

"N'  comes  a  crash  of  green  water  as  sets  me  afloat 
With  freezing  fingers  clutching  the  keel  of  a  boat  — 
The   bottom-up   whaler  —  'n'  that  was   the  juice   of   a 
note. 

'Well,  I  clambers  acrost  o'  the  keel  'n'  I  gets  me  secured, 
When  I  sees  a  face  in  the  white  o'  the  smother  to  looard, 
So  I  gives  'im  a  'and,  'n'  be  shot  if  it  wasn't  the  stooard ! 

'So  he  climbs  up  forrard  o'  me,  'n'  "thanky,"  a'  says, 
'N'  we  sits  'n'  shivers  'n'  freeze  to  the  bone  wi'  the  sprays, 
'N'  /  sings  "Abel  Brown,"  'n'  the  stooard  he  prays. 


'Wi'  never  a  dollop  to  sup  nor  a  morsel  to  bite, 

The  lips  of  us  blue  with  the  cold  'n'   the  heads  of  us 

light, 
Adrift  in  a  Cape  Horn  sea  for  a  day  'n'  a  night. 

"N'  then  the  stooard  goes  dotty  'n'  puts  a  tune  to  his 

lip, 

'N'  moans  about  Love  like  a  dern  old  hen  wi'  the  pip  — 
(I  sets  no  store  upon  stooards  —  they  ain't  no  use  on  a 

ship). 


C4*§. 


'Well,  I  clambers  acrost  o*  the  keel  V  I  gets  me  secured, 
When  I  sees  a  face  in  the  white  o'  the  smother  to  looard, 
So  I  gives  'im  a  'and,  'n'  be  shot  if  it  wasn't  the  stooard !' 


12  SALT-WATER  BALLADS 

"N*  "mother,"  the  looney  cackles,  "come  'n'  put  Willy 

to  bed!" 

So  I  says  "Dry  up,  or  I'll  fetch  you  a  crack  o'  the  head" ; 
"The  kettle's  a-bilin',"  he  answers,  "'n'  I'll  go  butter 

the  bread." 

"N'  he  falls  to  singin'  some  slush  about  clinkin'  a  can, 

'N'  at  last  he  dies,  so  he  does,  'n'  I  tells  you,  Jan, 

I  was  glad  when  he  did,  for  he  weren't  no  fun  for  a  man. 

'So  he  falls  forrard,  he  does,  'n'  he  closes  his  eye, 
'N'  quiet  he  lays  'n'  quiet  I  leaves  him  lie, 
'N'  I  was  alone  with  his  corp,  'n'  the  cold  green  sea  and 
the  sky. 

"N'  then  I  dithers,  I  guess,  for  the  next  as  I  knew 
Was  the  voice  of  a  mate  as  was  sayin'  to  one  of  the  crew, 
"Easy,   my   son,   wi'   the  brandy,   be   shot  if   he   ain't 
comin'-to!"' 


'We  rigged  up  a  tackle,  a  purchase,  a  sort  of  a  shift, 

To  hoist  the  boats  off  o'  the  deck-house  and  get  them  adrift, 

When  her  stern  gives  a  sickenin'  settle,  her  bows  give  a  lift, 

"N'  comes  a  crash  of  green  water  as  sets  me  afloat 

With  freezing  ringers  clutching  the  keel  of  a  boat  — 

The  bottom-up  whaler  —  'n'  that  was  the  juice  of  a  note.' 


BURIAL  PARTY 

'HE'S  deader  'n  nails,'  the  fo'c's'le  said,  "n'  gone  to  his 

long  sleep' ; 
"N'  about  his  corp,'  said  Tom  to  Dan,  'd'ye  think  his 

corp'll  keep 
Till  the  day's  done,  'n'  the  work's  through,  'n'  the  ebb's 

upon  the  neap  ? ' 

'He's  deader  'n  nails,'  said  Dan  to  Tom,  "n'  I  wish  his 

sperrit  j'y; 
He  spat  straight  'n'  he  steered  true,  but  listen  to  me, 

say  I, 
Take  'n'  cover  'n'  bury  him  now,  'n'  I'll  take  'n'  tell 

you  why. 

'It's  a  rummy  rig  of  a  guffy's  yarn,  'n'  the  juice  of  a 

rummy  note, 

But  if  you  buries  a  corp  at  night,  it  takes  'n'  keeps  afloat, 
For  its  bloody  soul's  afraid  o'  the  dark  'n'  sticks  within 

the  throat. 

"N'  all  the  night  till  the  grey  o'  the  dawn  the  dead  'un  has 

to  swim 
With  a  blue  'n'  beastly  Will  o'  the  Wisp  a-burnin'  over 

him, 

13 


I4  SALT-WATER   BALLADS 

With  a  herring,  maybe,  a-scoffin'  a  toe  or  a  shark  a-chew- 
in'  a  limb. 

"N'  all  the  night  the  shiverin'  corp  it  has  to  swim  the 

sea, 
With  its  shudderin'  soul  inside  the  throat  (where  a  soul's 

no  right  to  be), 
Till  the  sky's  grey  V  the  dawn's  clear,  'n'  then  the  sperrit's 

free. 

'Now  Joe  was  a  man  was  right  as  rain.     I'm  sort  of  sore 

for  Joe, 
'N'  if  we  bury  him  durin'  the  day,  his  soul  can  take  'n' 

go; 
So  we'll  dump  his  corp  when  the  bell  strikes  'n'  we  can 

get  below. 

'I'd  fairly  hate  for  him  to  swim  in  a  blue  'n'  beastly 

light, 
With  his  shudderin'  soul  inside  of  him  a-feelin'  the  fishes 

bite, 
So  over  he  goes  at  noon,  say  I,  'n'  he  shall  sleep  to-night.' 


BILL 

HE  lay  dead  on  the  cluttered  deck  and  stared  at  the  cold 

skies, 
With  never  a  friend  to  mourn  for  him  nor  a  hand  to  close 

his  eyes : 
'Bill,  he's  dead,'  was  all  they  said;   'he's  dead,  V  there 

he  lies.' 

The  mate  came  forrard  at  seven  bells  and  spat  across  the 

rail : 
'Just  lash  him  up  wi'  some  holystone  in  a  clout  o'  rotten 

sail, 
'N',  rot  ye,  get  a  gait  on  ye,  ye're  slower'n  a  bloody  snail !' 

When  the  rising  moon  was  a  copper  disc  and  the  sea  was 

a  strip  of  steel, 
We  dumped  him  down  to  the  swaying  weeds  ten  fathom 

beneath  the  keel. 
'It's  rough  about  Bill,'  the  fo'c's'le  said,  'we'll  have  to 

stand  his  wheel.' 


FEVER  SHIP 

THERE'LL  be  no  weepin'  gells  ashore  when  our  ship  sails, 
Nor  no  crews  cheerin'  us,  standin'  at  the  rails, 
'N'  no  Blue  Peter  a-foul  the  royal  stay, 
For  we've  the  Yellow  Fever  —  Harry  died  to-day.  — 
It's  cruel  when  a  fo'c's'le  gets  the  fever! 

'N'  Dick  has  got  the  fever-shakes,  'n'  look  what  I  was  told 
(I  went  to  get  a  sack  for  him  to  keep  him  from  the  cold) : 
'Sir,  can  I  have  a  sack?'  I  says,  'for  Dick  'e's  fit  to  die.' 
'Oh,  sack  be  shot!'  the  skipper  says,  'jest  let  the  rotter 
lie!'  — 

It's  cruel  when  a  fo'c's'le  gets  the  fever ! 

It's  a  cruel  port  is  Santos,  and  a  hungry  land, 
With  rows  o'  graves  already  dug  in  yonder  strip  of  sand, 
'N'  Dick  is  hollerin'  up  the  hatch,  'e  says  'e's  goin'  blue, 
His  pore  teeth  are  chattering,  'n'  what's  a  man  to  do  ?  — 
It's  cruel  when  a  fo'c's'le  gets  the  fever ! 


16 


It  blew  like  the  Bull  of  Barney,  a  beast  of  a  breeze, 
'N'  over  the  rail  come  the  cold  green  lollopin'  seas, 
'N'  she  went  ashore  at  the  dawn  on  the  Ramirez. 


FEVER-CHILLS 

HE  tottered  out  of  the  alleyway  with  cheeks  the  colour 

of  paste, 
And  shivered  a  spell  and  mopped  his  brow  with  a  clout 

of  cotton  waste : 
'I've  a  lick  of  fever-chills,'  he  said,  "n'  my  inside  it's 

green, 
But  I'd  be  as  right  as  rain,'  he  said,  'if  I   had   some 

quinine,  — 
But  there  ain't  no  quinine  for  us  poor  sailor-men. 

'But  them  there  passengers,'  he  said,  'if  they  gets  fever- 
chills, 

There's  brimmin'  buckets  o'  quinine  for  them,  'n'  bulgin' 
crates  o'  pills, 

'N'  a  doctor  with  Latin  'n'  drugs  'n'  all  —  enough  to 
sink  a  town, 

'N'  they  lies  quiet  in  their  blushin'  bunks  'n'  mops  their 

gruel  down,  — 

But  there  ain't  none  o'  them  fine  ways  for  us  poor  sailor- 
men. 

'But  the  Chief  comes  forrard  'n'  he  says,  says  he,  "I  give 
you  a  straight  tip : 

c  I? 


He  tottered  out  of  the  alleyway  with  cheeks  the  colour  of 

paste, 
And  shivered  a  spell  and  mopped  his  brow  with  a  clout  of 

cotton  waste : 

'I've  a  lick  of  fever-chills,'  he  said, '  'n'  my  inside  it's  green, 
But  I'd  be  as  right  as  rain, '  he  said,  '  if  I  had  some  quinine,  — 
But  there  ain't  no  quinine  for  us  poor  sailor-men.' 


FEVER-CHILLS  19 

Come  none  o'  your  Cape  Horn  fever  lays  aboard  o'  this 
yer  ship. 

On  wi'  your  rags  o'  duds,  my  son,  V  aft,  'n'  down  the 
hole : 

The  best  cure  known  for  fever-chills  is  shovelling  bloody 

coal." 

It's  hard,  my  son,  that's  what  it  is,  for  us  poor  sailor- 
men.' 


ONE   OF   THE   BO'SUN'S   YARNS 

LOAFIN'  around  in  Sailor  Town,  a-bluin'  o'  my  advance, 
I  met  a  derelict  donkeyman  who  led  me  a  merry  dance, 
Till  he  landed  me  'n'  bleached  me  fair  in  the  bar  of  a 

rum-saloon, 
'N'  there  he  spun  me  a  juice  of  a  yarn  to  this-yer  brand 

of  tune. 

'It's  a  solemn  gospel,  mate,'  he  says,  'but  a  man  as  ships 

aboard 
A  steamer-tramp,  he  gets  his  whack  of  the  wonders  of 

the  Lord  — 
Such  as  roaches  crawlin'  over  his  bunk,  'n'  snakes  inside 

his  bread, 
And  work  by  night  and  work  by  day  enough  to  strike 

him  dead. 

'But  that  there's  by  the  way,'  says  he;    'the  yarn  I'm 
goin'  to  spin 

Is  about  myself  'n'  the  life  I  led  in  the  last  ship  I  was  in, 

The  "Esmeralda,"  casual  tramp,  from  Hull  towards  the 
Hook, 

Wi'  one  o'  the  brand  o*  Cain  for  mate  'n'  a  human  mis- 
take for  cook. 

20 


'N'  the  ninth  night  out,  in  the  middle  watch,  I  woke  from  a  pleasant  dream, 
With  the  smash  of  a  steamer  ramming  our  plates  a  point  abaft  the  beam. 


ONE  OF  THE  BO'SUN'S  YARNS  21 

'We'd  a  week  or  so  of  dippin'  around  in  a  wind  from 

outer  hell, 
With  a  fathom  or  more  of  broken  sea  at  large  in  the 

forrard  well, 
Till  our  boats  were  bashed  and  bust  and  broke  and  gone 

to  Davy  Jones, 
'N'  then  come  white  Atlantic  fog  as  chilled  us  to  the 

bones. 

'We  slowed  her  down  and  started  the  horn  and  watch 

and  watch  about, 
We  froze  the  marrow  in  all  our  bones  a-keepin'  a  good 

look-out, 
'N'  the  ninth  night  out,  in  the  middle  watch,  I  woke  from 

a  pleasant  dream, 
With  the  smash  of  a  steamer  ramming  our  plates  a  point 

abaft  the  beam. 

"Twas  cold  and  dark  when  I  fetched  the  deck,  dirty 

V  cold  V  thick, 
'N'  there  was  a  feel  in  the  way  she  rode  as  fairly  turned 

me  sick ;  — 
She  was  settlin',  listin'  quickly  down,  'n'  I  heard  the 

mates  a-cursin', 
'N'  I  heard  the  wash  'n'  the  grumble-grunt  of  a  steamer's 

screws  reversin'. 

'She  was  leavin*  us,  mate,  to  sink  or  swim,  'n'  the  words 
we  took  'n'  said 


22  SALT-WATER   BALLADS 

They  turned  the  port-light  grassy-green  V  the  starboard 

rosy-red. 
We  give  her  a  hot  perpetual  taste  of  the  singeing  curse  of 

Cain, 
As  we  heard  her  back  'n'  clear  the  wreck  'n'  off  to  her 

course  again. 

'Then  the  mate  came  dancin'  on  to  the  scene,  'n'  he  says, 

"Now  quit  yer  chin, 
Or  I'll  smash  yer  skulls,  so  help  me  James,  'n'  let  some 

wisdom   in. 
Ye  dodderin'  scum  o'  the  slums,"  he  says,  "are  ye  drunk 

or  blazin*  daft  ? 
If  ye  wish  to  save  yer  sickly  hides,  ye'd  best  contrive 

a  raft." 

'  So  he  spoke  us  fair  and  turned  us  to,  'n'  we  wrought 

wi'  tooth  and  nail 
Wi'  scantling,  casks,  'n'  coops  'n'  ropes,  'n'  boiler-plates 

'n'  sail, 
'N'  all  the  while  it  were  dark  'n'  cold  'n'  dirty  as  it  could 

be, 
'N'  she  was  soggy  'n'  settlin'  down  to  a  berth  beneath 

the  sea. 

'Soggy  she  grew,  'n'  she  didn't  lift,  'n'  she  listed  more 

'n'  more, 
Till  her  bell  struck  'n'  her  boiler-pipes  began  to  wheeze 

'n'  snore ; 


ONE  OF  THE   BO'SUN'S  YARNS  23 

She  settled,  settled,  listed,  heeled,  'n'  then  may  I  be  cust, 
If  her  sneezin',  wheezin'  boiler-pipes  did   not  begin  to 
bust! 

*'N*  then  the  stars  began  to  shine,  'n'  the  birds  began  to 

sing, 
'N'  the  next  I  knowed  I  was  bandaged  up  'n'  my  arm  were 

in  a  sling, 
'N'  a  swab  in  uniform  were  there,  'n'  "Well,"  says  he, 

"'n'how 
Are  yer  arms,  'n'  legs,  'n'  liver,  'n'  lungs,  'n'  bones  a-feelin' 

now?" 

"'Where  am  I?"  says  I,  V  he  says,  says  he,  a-cantin' 
to  the  roll, 

"You're  aboard  the  R.M.S.  'Marie'  in  the  after  Glory- 
Hole, 

'N'  you've  had  a  shave,  if  you  wish  to  know,  from  the 
port  o'  Kingdom  Come. 

Drink  this,"  he  says,  'n'  I  takes  'n'  drinks,  'n'  s'elp  me, 
it  was  rum ! 

'Seven  survivors  seen  'n'  saved  of  the   "Esmeralda's" 

crowd, 
Taken  aboard  the  sweet  "Marie"  'n'  bunked  'n'  treated 

proud, 

'N'  D.B.S.'d  to  Mersey  Docks  ('n'  a  joyful  trip  we  made), 
'N'  there  the  skipper  were  given  a  purse  by  a  grateful 

Board  of  Trade. 


24  SALT-WATER   BALLADS 

'That's  the  end  o'  the  yarn,'  he  says,  V  he  takes  'n* 

wipes  his  lips, 
'Them's  the  works  o'  the  Lord  you  sees  in  steam  'n* 

sailin*  ships,  —    ' 

Rocks  V  fogs  'n*  shatterin*  seas  'n*  breakers  right  ahead, 
'N'  work  o'  nights  V  work  o'  days  enough  to  strike  you 

dead.' 


They  towed  her  in  to  Liverpool,  we  made  the  hooker  fast, 
And  the  copper-bound  officials  paid  the  crew, 

And  Billy  drew  his  money,  but  the  money  didn't  last, 
For  he  painted  the  alongshore  blue,  - 

It  was  rum  for  Poll,  and  rum  for  Nan,  and  gin  for  Jolly  Jack. 

He  shipped  a  week  later  in  the  clothes  upon  his  back, 

He  had  to  pinch  a  little  straw,  he  had  to  beg  a  sack 
To  sleep  on,  when  his  watch  was  through,  - 

So  he  did. 


HELL'S  PAVEMENT 
'WHEN  I'm  discharged  in  Liverpool  'n'  draws  my  bit  o* 

pay, 

I  won't  come  to  sea  no  more. 
I'll  court  a  pretty  little  lass  'n'  have  a  weddin'  day, 

'N'  settle  somewhere  down  ashore. 
I'll  never  fare  to  sea  again  a-temptin'  Davy  Jones, 
A-hearkening   to   the   cruel    sharks    a-hungerin'   for   my 

bones  ; 

I'll  run  a  blushin'  dairy-farm  or  go  a-crackin*  stones, 
Or  buy  'n'  keep  a  little  liquor-store,'  — 

So  he  said. 


They  towed  her  in  to  Liverpool,  we  made  the  hooker 

fast, 

And  the  copper-bound  officials  paid  the  crew, 
And  Billy  drew  his  money,  but  the  money  didn't  last, 

For  he  painted  the  alongshore  blue,  — 
It  was  rum  for  Poll,  and  rum  for  Nan,  and  gin  for  Jolly 

Jack. 

He  shipped  a  week  later  in  the  clothes  upon  his  back, 
He  had  to  pinch  a  little  straw,  he  had  to  beg  a  sack 
To  sleep  on,  when  his  watch  was  through,  — 

So  he  did. 


SEA-CHANGE 

'GoNEYS  an'  gullies  an*  all  o'  the  birds  o'  the  sea, 
They  ain't  no  birds,  not  really,'  said  Billy  the  Dane. 

'Not  mollies,  nor  gullies,  nor  goneys  at  all,'  said  he, 
'But  simply  the  sperrits  of  mariners  livin'  again. 

'Them   birds   goin'   fishin'   is   nothin'   but   souls   o'   the 

drowned, 
Souls  o'  the  drowned  an'  the  kicked  as  are  never  no 

more; 

An'  that  there  haughty  old  albatross  cruisin'  around, 
Belike  he's  Admiral  Nelson  or  Admiral  Noah. 

'An'  merry's  the  life  they  are  living.     They  settle  and 

dip, 
They  fishes,  they  never  stands  watches,  they  waggle 

their  wings ; 

When  a  ship  comes  by,  they  fly  to  look  at  the  ship 
To  see  how  the  nowaday  mariners  manages  things. 

'When  freezing  aloft  in  a  snorter,  I  tell  you  I  wish  — 
(Though  maybe  it  ain't  like  a  Christian)  —  I  wish  I 
could  be 

A  haughty  old  copper-bound  albatross  dipping  for  fish 
And  coming  the  proud  over  all  o'  the  birds  o'  the  sea.' 

26 


4  Goneys  an'  gullies  an'  all  o'  the  birds  o*  the  sea, 

They  ain't  no  birds,  not  really,'  said  Billy  the  Dane. 

'Not  mollies,  nor  gullies,  nor  goneys  at  all,'  said  he, 
'  But  simply  the  sperrits  of  mariners  livin'  again. 

'Them  birds  goin'  fishin'  is  nothin'  but  souls  o*  the  drowned, 

Souls  o'  the  drowned  an'  the  kicked  as  are  never  no  more  ; 
An*  that  there  haughty  old  albatross  cruisin'  around, 
Belike  he's  Admiral  Nelson  or  Admiral  Noah.' 


HARBOUR  BAR 

ALL  in  the  feathered   palm-tree   tops   the   bright  green 

parrots  screech, 
The  white  line  of  the  running  surf  goes  booming  down  the 

beach, 
But  I  shall  never  see  them,  though  the  land  lies  close 

aboard, 
I've  shaped  the  last  long  silent  tack  as  takes  one  to  the 

Lord. 

Give  me  the  Scripters,  Jakey,  'n'  my  pipe  atween  my  lips, 
I'm  bound  for  somewhere  south  and  far  beyond  the  track 

of  ships ; 
I've  run  my  rags  of  colours  up  and  clinched  them  to  the 

stay, 
And  God  the  pilot's  come  aboard  to  bring  me  up  the  bay. 

You'll  mainsail-haul  my  bits  o'  things  when  Christ  has 

took  my  soul, 
'N'  you'll  lay  me  quiet  somewhere  at  the  landward  end 

the  Mole, 
Where  I   shall  hear  the   steamers'   sterns  a-squattering 

from  the  heave, 
And  the  topsail  blocks  a-piping  when  a  rope-yarn  fouls 

the  sheave. 

28 


HARBOUR  BAR  29 

Give  me  a  sup  of  lime-juice;    Lord,  I'm  drifting  in  to 

port, 
The  landfall  lies  to  windward  and  the  wind  comes  light 

and  short, 

And  I'm  for  signing  off  and  out  to  take  my  watch  below, 
And  —  prop  a  fellow,  Jakey  —  Lord,  it's  time  for  me  to 

go! 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  TIDE 

AN'  Bill  can  have  my  sea-boots,  Nigger  Jim  can  have 

my  knife, 

You  can  divvy  up  the  dungarees  an'  bed, 
An'  the  ship  can  have  my  blessing,  an'  the  Lord  can  have 

my  life, 
An'  sails  an'  fish  my  body  when  I'm  dead. 

An'  dreaming  down  below  there  in  the  tangled  greens  an' 

blues, 

Where  the  sunlight  shudders  golden  round  about, 
I  shall  hear  the  ships  complainin'  an'  the  cursin'  of  the 

crews, 
An'  be  sorry  when  the  watch  is  tumbled  out. 

I  shall  hear  them  hilly-hollying  the  weather  crojick  brace, 
And  the  sucking  of  the  wash  about  the  hull  ; 

When  they  chanty  up  the  topsail  I'll  be  hauling  in  my 

place, 
For  my  soul  will  follow  seawards  like  a  gull. 

I  shall  hear  the  blocks  a-grunting  in  the  bumpkins  over- 
side, 

An'  the  slatting  of  the  storm-sails  on  the  stay, 
An'  the  rippling  of  the  catspaw  at  the  making  of  the  tide, 
An'  the  swirl  and  splash  of  porpoises  at  play. 

30 


I  shall  hear  the  blocks  a-grunting  in  the  bumpkins  overside, 
An'  the  slatting  of  the  storm-sails  on  the  stay, 

An'  the  rippling  of  the  catspaw  at  the  making  of  the  tide, 
An'  the  swirl  and  splash  of  porpoises  at  play. 


32  SALT-WATER  BALLADS 

An'  Bill  can  have  my  sea-boots,  Nigger  Jim  can  have  my 

knife, 

You  can  divvy  up  the  whack  I  haven't  scofft, 
An'  the  ship  can  have  my  blessing  and  the  Lord  can  have 

my  life, 
For  it's  time  I  quit  the  deck  and  went  aloft. 


ONE  OF  WALLY'S  YARNS 

THE  watch  was  up  on  the  topsail-yard  a-making  fast  the 

sail, 
'N'  Joe  was  swiggin'  his  gasket  taut,  'n'  I  felt  the  stirrup 

give, 
'N'   he   dropped   sheer  from   the   tops'1-yard   'n'  barely 

cleared  the  rail, 

'N'  o'  course,  we  bein'  aloft,  we  couldn't  do  nothin'  — 
We  couldn't  lower  a  boat  and  go  a-lookin'  for  him, 
For  it  blew  hard  'n'  there  was  sech  a  sea  runnin' 
That  no  boat  wouldn't  live. 

I  seed  him  rise  in  the  white  o'  the  wake,  I  seed  him  lift 

a  hand 

('N'  him  in  his  oilskin  suit  'n'  all),  I  heard  him  lift  a  cry; 
'N'  there  was  his  place  on  the  yard  'n'  all,  'n'  the  stirrup's 

busted  strand. 

'N'  the  old  man  said  there's  a  cruel  old  sea  runnin', 
A  cold  green  Barney's  Bull  of  a  sea  runnin' ; 
It's  hard,  but  I  ain't  agoin'  to  let  a  boat  be  lowered : 
So  we  left  him  there  to  die. 

He  couldn't  have  kept  afloat  for  long  an*  him  lashed  up 
V  all, 

D  33 


The  watch  was  up  on  the  topsail-yard  a-making  fast  the  sail, 
'N'  Joe  was  swiggin'  his  gasket  taut,  *n'  I  felt  the  stirrup  give, 
'N'  he  dropped  sheer  from  the  tops'1-yard  'n'  barely  cleared  the  rail, 
*N*  o*  course,  we  bein'  aloft,  vie  couldn't  do  nothin'  — 

We  couldn't  lower  a  boat  and  go  a-lookin'  for  him, 

For  it  blew  hard  *n*  there  was  sech  a  sea  runnin* 
That  no  boat  wouldn't  live. 


ONE  OF  WALLY'S  YARNS  35 

'N'  we  couldn't  see  him  for  long,  for  the  sea  was  blurred 

with  the  sleet  'n'  snow, 
'N'  we  couldn't  think  of  him  much  because  o'  the  snortin', 

screamin'  squall. 

There  was  a  hand  less  at  the  halliards  'n'  the  braces, 
'N'  a  name  less  when  the  watch  spoke  to  the  muster-roll, 
'N'  a  empty  bunk  'n'  a  pannikin  as  wasn't  wanted 
When  the  watch  went  below. 


A    CRIMP.  A   DRUNKEN    SAILOR. 

Is  there  anything  as  I  can  do  ashore  for  you 
When  you've  dropped  down  the  tide  ?  — 

You  can  take  'n'  tell  Nan  I'm  goin'  about  the  world  agen, 

'N'  that  the  world's  wide. 
'N'  tell  her  that  there  ain't  no  postal  service 

Not  down  on  the  blue  sea. 
'N'  tell  her  that  she'd  best  not  keep  her  fires  alight 

Nor  set  up  late  for  me. 
'N'  tell  her  I'll  have  forgotten  all  about  her 

Afore  we  cross  the  Line. 
'N'  tell  her  that  the  dollars  of  any  other  sailorman 

Is  as  good  red  gold  as  mine. 

Is  there  anything  as  I  can  do  aboard  for  you 
Afore  the  tow-rope's  taut  ? 

I'm  new  to  this  packet  and  all  the  ways  of  her, 

'N'  I  don't  know  of  aught; 
But  I  knows  as  I'm  goin'  down  to  the  seas  agen 

'N'  the  seas  are  salt  'n'  drear ; 
But  I  knows  as  all  the  doin'  as  you're  man  enough  for 

Won't  make  them  lager-beer. 
36 


A  VALEDICTION   (LIVERPOOL  DOCKS) 
A  Crimp  A  Drunken  Sailor 


A  VALEDICTION  (LIVERPOOL  DOCKS)         37 

W  ain't  there  nothin'  as  I  can  do  ashore  for  you 
When  you've  got  fair  afloat  ?  — 

You  can  buy  a  farm  with  the  dollars  as  you've  done  me  of 
'N'  cash  my  advance-note. 

Is  there  any  thin'  you'd  fancy  for  your  breakfastin* 
When  you're  home  across  Mersey  Bar  ?  — 

I  wants  a  red  herrin'  V  a  prairie  oyster 
'N'  a  bucket  of  Three  Star, 
'N'  a  gell  with  redder  lips  than  Polly  has  got, 
'N'  prettier  ways  than  Nan  — 

Well,  so-long,  Billy,  V  a  spankin'  heavy  pay-day  to  you  ! 
So-long,  my  fancy  man ! 


A  NIGHT  AT  DAGO  TOM'S 

OH  yesterday,  I  t'ink  it  was,  while  cruisin'  down  the  street, 
I  met  with  Bill.  —  'Hullo,'  he  says,  'let's  give  the  girls  a 

treat.' 
We'd  red  bandanas  round  our  necks  'n'  our  shrouds  new 

rattled  down, 
So  we  filled  a  couple  of  Santy  Cruz  and  cleared  for  Sailor 

Town. 

We  scooted  south  with  a  press  of  sail  till  we  fetched  to  a 

caboose, 
The  'Sailor's  Rest,'  by  Dago  Tom,  alongside  'Paddy's 

Goose.' 
Red  curtains  to  the  windies,  ay,  'n'  white  sand  to   the 

floor, 
And  an  old  blind  fiddler  liltin'  the  tune  of  'Lowlands  no 

more.' 

He  played  the  'Shaking  of  the  Sheets'  'n'  the  couples 

did  advance, 
Bowing,    stamping,    curtsying,    in    the    shuffling   of   the 

dance; 
The  old  floor  rocked  and  quivered,  so  it  struck  beholders 

dumb, 

38 


A  NIGHT  AT  DAGO  TOM'S  39 

'N'  afterwards  there  was  sweet  songs  'n'  good  Jamaikey 
rum. 

'N'  there  was  many  a  merry  yarn  of  many  a  merry  spree 
Aboard  the  ships  with  royals  set  a-sailing  on  the  sea, 
Yarns  of  the  hooker  'Spindrift,'  her  as  had  the  clipper- 
bow,  — 

'There  ain't  no  ships,'  says  Bill  to  me,  'like  that  there 
hooker  now.' 

When  the  old  blind  fiddler  played  the  tune  of  'Pipe  the 

Watch  Below,' 
The  skew-eyed  landlord  dowsed  the  glim  and  bade  us 

'stamp  'n'  go,' 
'N'  we  linked  it  home,  did  Bill  'n'  I,  adown  the  scattered 

streets, 
Until  we  fetched  to  Land  o'  Nod  atween  the  linen  sheets. 


PORT  OF  MANY  SHIPS 

'IT'S  a  sunny  pleasant  anchorage,  is  Kingdom  Come, 
Where    crews    is    always    layin'   aft   for    double-tots   oj 

rum, 

'N'  there's  dancin'  'n'  fiddlin'  of  ev'ry  kind  o'  sort, 
It's  a  fine  place  for  sailor-men  is  that  there  port. 

'N'  I  wish  — 

I  wish  as  I  was  there. 

'The  winds  is  never  nothin'  more  than  jest  light  airs, 
'N'  no-one  gets  belayin'-pinned,  'n'  no-one  never  swears, 
Yer  free  to  loaf  an'  laze  around,  yer  pipe  atween  yer 

lips, 
Lollin'  on  the  fo'c's'le,  sonny,  lookin'  at  the  ships. 

'N'  I  wish  — 

I  wish  as  I  was  there. 

'  For  ridin'  in  the  anchorage  the  ships  of  all  the  world 
Have  got  one  anchor  down  'n'  all  sails  furled. 
All  the  sunken  hookers  'n'  the  crews  as  took  'n'  died 
They  lays  there  merry,  sonny,  swingin'  to  the  tide. 

'N'  I  wish  — 

I  wish  as  I  was  there. 
40 


Oh  yesterday,  I  t'ink  it  was,  while  cruisin'  down  the  street, 
I  met  with  Bill.  —  'Hullo,'  he  says,  'let's  give  the  girls  a  treat.' 
We'd  red  bandanas  round  our  necks  'n'  our  shrouds  new  rattled  down, 
So  we  filled  a  couple  of  Santy  Cruz  and  cleared  for  Sailor  Town. 


PORT  OF  MANY  SHIPS  41 

'Drowned  old  wooden  hookers  green  wi'  drippin'  wrack, 
Ships  as  never  fetched  to  port,  as  never  came  back, 
Swingin'  to  the  blushin'  tide,  dippin*  to  the  swell, 
'N'  the  crews  all  singin',  sonny,  beatin'  on  the  bell. 

'N'  I  wish  — 

I  wish  as  I  was  there.' 


CAPE  HORN  GOSPEL  — I 

'I  WAS  in  a  hooker  once,'  said  Karlssen, 

'And  Bill,  as  was  a  seaman,  died, 

So  we  lashed  him  in  an  old  tarpaulin 

And  tumbled  him  across  the  side ; 

And  the  fun  of  it  was  that  all  his  gear  was 

Divided  up  among  the  crew 

Before  that  blushing  human  error, 

Our  crawling  little  captain,  knew. 

'On  the  passage  home  one  morning 
(As  certain  as  I  prays  for  grace) 
There  was  old  Bill's  shadder  a-hauling 
At  the  weather  mizzen-topsail  brace. 
He  was  all  grown  green  with  sea-weed, 
He  was  all  lashed  up  and  shored ; 
So  I  says  to  him,  I  says,  "Why,  Billy ! 
What's  a-bringin'  of  you  back  aboard  ?" 

'"I'm  a-weary  of  them  there  mermaids," 
Says  old  Bill's  ghost  to  me ; 
"  It  ain't  no  place  for  a  Christian 
Below  there  —  under  sea. 
For  it's  all  blown  sand  and  shipwrecks, 
42 


CAPE  HORN   GOSPEL  — I  43 

And  old  bones  eaten  bare, 
And  them  cold  fishy  females 
With  long  green  weeds  for  hair. 

'"And  there  ain't  no  dances  shuffled, 

And  no  old  yarns  is  spun, 

And  there  ain't  no  stars  but  starfish, 

And  never  any  moon  or  sun. 

I  heard  your  keel  a-passing 

And  the  running  rattle  of  the  brace," 

And  he  says,  "Stand  by,"  says  William, 

"For  a  shift  towards  a  better  place." 

'Well,  he  sogered  about  decks  till  sunrise, 
When  a  rooster  in  the  hen-coop  crowed, 
And  as  so  much  smoke  he  faded 
And  as  so  much  smoke  he  goed ; 
And  I've  often  wondered  since,  Jan, 
How  his  old  ghost  stands  to  fare 
Long  o'  them  cold  fishy  females 
With  long  green  weeds  for  hair.' 


CAPE  HORN  GOSPEL  —  II 

JAKE  was  a  dirty  Dago  lad,  an'  he  gave  the  skipper  chin, 
An'  the  skipper  up  an'  took  him  a  crack  with  an  iron 

belaying-pin 
Which  stiffened  him  out  a  rusty  corp,  as  pretty  as  you 

could  wish, 
An'  then  we  shovelled  him  up  in  a  sack  an'  dumped  him 

to  the  fish. 

That  was  jest  arter  we'd  got  sail  on  her. 

Josey  slipped  from  the  tops'1-yard  an'  bust  his  bloody 

back 
(Which  corned  from  playing  the  giddy  goat  an'  leavin* 

go  the  jack)  ; 
We  lashed  his  chips  in  clouts  of  sail  an'  ballasted   him 

with  stones, 
'The  Lord  hath  taken  away,'  we  says,  an'  we  give  him 

to  Davy  Jones. 

An'  that  was  afore  we  were  up  with  the  Line. 

Joe  were  chippin'  a  rusty  plate  a-squattin'  upon  the  deck, 
An'  all  the  watch  he  had  the  sun  a-singein'   him  on  the 

neck, 
An'  forrard  he  falls  at  last,  he  does,  an'  he  lets  his  mallet 


44 


'  On  the  passage  home  one  morning 
(As  certain  as  I  prays  for  grace) 
There  was  old  Bill's  shadder  a-hauling 
At  the  weather  mizzen-topsail  brace. 
He  was  all  grown  green  with  sea-weed, 
He  was  all  lashed  up  and  shored ; 
So  I  says  to  him,  I  says,  "  Why,  Billy ! 
What's  a-bringin'  of  you  back  aboard  ?  " 


CAPE  HORN  GOSPEL  — II  45 

Dead  as  a  nail  with  a  calenture,  an'  that  was  the  end  of 
Joe. 

An'  that  was  just  afore  we  made  the  Plate. 

All  o'  the  rest  were  sailor-men,  an'  it  come  to  rain  an' 

squall, 
An'  then  it  was  halliards,  sheets,  an  'tacks  'clue  up,  an' 

let  go  all.' 
We  snugged  her  down  an'  hove  her  to,  an'  the  old  con- 

trairy  cuss 
Started  a  plate,  an'  settled  an'  sank,  an'  that  was  the  end 

of  us. 

We  slopped  around  on  coops  an'  planks  in  the  cold  an' 

in  the  dark, 
An'  Bill  were  drowned,  an'  Tom  were  ate  by  a  swine  of 

a  cruel  shark, 
An'  a  mail-boat  reskied  Harry  an*  I    (which   corned   of 

pious  prayers), 
Which  brings  me  here  a-kickin'  my  heels  in  the  port  of 

Buenos  Ayres. 

I'm  bound  for  home  in  the  'Oronook,'  in  a  suit  of  looted 

duds, 

A  D.B.S.  a-earnin'  a  stake  by  helpin'  peelin'  spuds, 
An'  if  ever  I  fetch  to  Prince's  Stage  an'  sets   my  feet 

ashore, 
You  bet  your  hide  that  there  I  stay,  an'  follers  the  sea 

no  more. 


MOTHER  CAREY 

(AS    TOLD     ME     BY    THE     BO 

MOTHER  CAREY  ?     She's  the  mother  o'  the  witches 

'N'  all  them  sort  o'  rips ; 
She's  a  fine  gell  to  look  at,  but  the  hitch  is, 

She's  a  sight  too  fond  of  ships. 
She  lives  upon  a  iceberg  to  the  norred, 

'N'  her  man  he's  Davy  Jones, 
'N'  she  combs  the  weeds  upon  her  forred 

With  pore  drowned  sailors'  bones. 

She's  the  mother  o'  the  wrecks,  'n'  the  mother 

Of  all  big  winds  as  blows ; 
She's  up  to  some  deviltry  or  other 

When  it  storms,  or  sleets,  or  snows. 
The  noise  of  the  wind's  her  screamin', 

'I'm  arter  a  plump,  young,  fine, 
Brass-buttoned,  beefy-ribbed  young  seam'n 

So  as  me  'n'  my  mate  kin  dine.' 

She's  a  hungry  old  rip  'n'  a  cruel 

For  sailor-men  like  we, 
She's  give  a  many  mariners  the  gruel 

'N'  a  long  sleep  under  sea. 
46 


MOTHER   CAREY  47 

She's  the  blood  o'  many  a  crew  upon  her 

'N'  the  bones  of  many  a  wreck, 
'N'  she's  barnacles  a-growin'  on  her 

'N'  shark's  teeth  round  her  neck. 

I  ain't  never  had  no  schoolin' 

Nor  read  no  books  like  you, 
But  I  knows  't  ain't  healthy  to  be  foolin' 

With  that  there  gristly  two. 
You're  young,  you  thinks,  V  you're  lairy, 

But  if  you're  to  make  old  bones, 
Steer  clear,  I  says,  o'  Mother  Carey, 

'N'  that  there  Davy  Jones. 


EVENING  —  REGATTA  DAY 

YOUR  nose  is  a  red  jelly,  your  mouth's  a  toothless  wreck, 
And  I'm  atop  of  you,  banging  your  head  upon  the  dirty 

deck; 
And  both  your  eyes  are  bunged  and  blind  like  those  of  a 

mewling  pup, 
For  you're  the  juggins  who  caught  the  crab  and  lost  the 

ship  the  Cup. 

He  caught  a  crab  in  the  spurt  home,  this  blushing  cherub  did, 
And  the  '  CraigieV  whaler  slipped  ahead  like  a  cart-wheel 

on  the  skid, 
And  beat  us  fair  by  a  boat's  nose  though  we  sweated  fit 

to  start  her, 
So  we  are  playing  at  Nero  now,  and  he's  the  Christian 

martyr. 

And  Stroke  is  lashing  a  bunch  of  keys  to  the  buckle-end 

a  belt, 
And  we're  going  to  lay  you  over  a  chest  and  baste  you  till 

you  melt. 
The  'Craigie'  boys  are  beating  the  bell  and  cheering  down 

the  tier, 
D'ye  hear,  you  Port  Mahone  baboon,  I  ask  you,  do  you 

hear  ? 

48 


Jake  was  a  dirty  Dago  lad,  an'  he  gave  the  skipper  chin, 
An'  the  skipper  up  an'  took  him  a  crack  with  an  iron  belaying-pin 
Which  stiffened  him  out  a  rusty  corp,  as  pretty  as  you  could  wish, 
An'  then  we  shovelled  him  up  in  a  sack  an'  dumped  him  to  the  fish. 
That  was  just  arter  we'd  got  sail  on  her. 


A  VALEDICTION 

WE'RE  bound  for  blue  water  where  the  great  winds  blow, 
It's  time  to  get  the  tacks  aboard,  time  for  us  to  go ; 
The  crowd's  at  the  capstan  and  the  tune's  in  the  shout, 
'A  long  pull,  a  strong  pull,  and  warp  the  hooker  out? 

The  bow-wash  is  eddying,  spreading  from  the  bows, 
Aloft  and  loose  the  topsails  and  some  one  give  a  rouse ; 
A  salt  Atlantic  chanty  shall  be  music  to  the  dead, 
'A  long  pull,  a  strong  pull,  and  ike  yard  to  the  masthead.* 

Green  and  merry  run  the  seas,  the  wind  comes  cold, 
Salt  and  strong  and  pleasant,  and  worth  a  mint  of  gold ; 
And  she's  staggering,  swooping,  as  she  feels  her  feet, 
'A  long  pull,  a  strong  pull,  and  aft  the  main-sheet? 

Shrilly    squeal    the    running   sheaves,    the   weather-gear 

strains, 

Such  a  clatter  of  chain-sheets,  the  devil's  in  the  chains ; 
Over  us  the  bright  stars,  under  us  the  drowned, 
'A  long  pull,  a  strong  pull,  and  wire  outward  bound? 

Yonder,  round  and  ruddy,  is  the  mellow  old  moon, 
The  red-funnelled  tug  has  gone,  and  now,  sonny,  soon 
We'll  be  clear  of  the  Channel,  so  watch  how  you  steer, 
'Ease  her  when  she  pitches,  and  so-long,  my  dear.' 
E  49 


The  bow-wash  is  eddying,  spreading  from  the  bows, 
Aloft  and  loose  the  topsails  and  some  one  give  a  rouse; 
A  salt  Atlantic  chanty  shall  be  music  to  the  dead, 
'  A  long  pull,  a  strong  pull,  and  the  yard  to  the  masthead,* 


A  PIER-HEAD  CHORUS 

OH  I'll  be  chewing  salted  horse  and  biting  flinty  bread, 
And  dancing  with  the  stars  to  watch,  upon  the  fo'c's'le  head, 
Hearkening  to  the  bow-wash  and  the  welter  of  the  tread 
Of  a  thousand  tons  of  clipper  running  free. 

For  the  tug  has  got  the  tow-rope  and  will  take  us  to  the 

Downs, 
Her  paddles  churn  the  river-wrack  to  muddy  greens  and 

browns, 

And  I  have  given  river-wrack  and  all  the  filth  of  towns 
For  the  rolling,  combing  cresters  of  the  sea. 

We'll  sheet  the  mizzen-royals  home  and  shimmer  down 

the  Bay, 
The  sea-line  blue  with  billows,  the  land-line  blurred  and 

grey; 

The  bow-wash  will  be  piling  high  and  thrashing  into  spray, 
As  the  hooker's  fore-foot  tramples  down  the  swell. 

She'll  log  a  giddy  seventeen  and  rattle  out  the  reel, 
The  weight  of  all  the  run-out  line  will  be  a  thing  to  feel, 
As  the  bacca-quidding  shell-back  shambles  aft  to  take 

the  wheel, 

And  the  sea-sick  little  middy  strikes  the  bell. 

Si 


She'll  log  a  giddy  seventeen  and  rattle  out  the  reel, 
The  weight  of  all  the  run-out  line  will  be  a  thing  to  feel, 
As  the  bacca-quidding  shell-back  shambles  aft  to  take  the  wheel, 
And  the  sea-sick  little  middy  strikes  the  bell. 


THE  GOLDEN  CITY  OF  ST.  MARY 

OUT  beyond  the  sunset,  could  I  but  find  the  way, 
Is  a  sleepy  blue  laguna  which  widens  to  a  bay, 
And  there's  the  Blessed  City  —  so  the  sailors  say  — 
The  Golden  City  of  St.  Mary. 

It's  built  of  fair  marble  —  white  —  without  a  stain, 
And  in  the  cool  twilight  when  the  sea-winds  wane 
The  bells  chime  faintly,  like  a  soft,  warm  rain, 
In  the  Golden  City  of  St.  Mary. 

Among  the  green  palm-trees  where  the  fire-flies  shine, 
Are  the  white  tavern  tables  where  the  gallants  dine, 
Singing  slow  Spanish  songs  like  old  mulled  wine, 
In  the  Golden  City  of  St.  Mary. 

Oh  I'll  be  shipping  sunset-wards  and  westward-ho 
Through  the  green  toppling   combers   a-shattering  into 

snow, 

Till  I  come  to  quiet  moorings  and  a  watch  below, 
In  the  Golden  City  of  St.  Mary. 


S3 


TRADE  WINDS 

IN  the  harbour,  in  the  island,  in  the  Spanish  Seas, 
Are  the  tiny  white  houses  and  the  orange-trees, 
And  day-long,  night  long,  the  cool  and  pleasant  breeze 
Of  the  steady  Trade  Winds  blowing. 

There  is  the  red  wine,  the  nutty  Spanish  ale, 
The  shuffle  of  the  dancers,  the  old  salt's  tale, 
The  squeaking  fiddle,  and  the  soughing  in  the  sail 
Of  the  steady  Trade  Winds  blowing. 

And  o'  nights  there's  fire-flies  and  the  yellow  moon, 
And  in  the  ghostly  palm-trees  the  sleepy  tune 
Of  the  quiet  voice  calling  me,  the  long  low  croon 
Of  the  steady  Trade  Winds  blowing. 


Yonder,  round  and  ruddy,  is  the  mellow  old  moon, 
The  red-funnelled  tug  has  gone,  and  now,  sonny,  soon 
We'll  be  clear  of  the  Channel,  so  watch  how  you  steer, 
'Ease  her  when  she  pitches,  and  so-long,  my  dear' 


SEA-FEVER 

I  MUST  down  to  the  seas  again,  to  the  lonely  sea  and  the 

sky, 

And  all  I  ask  is  a  tall  ship  and  a  star  to  steer  her  by, 
And  the  wheel's  kick  and  the  wind's  song  and  the  white 

sail's  shaking, 
And  a  grey  mist  on  the  sea's  face  and  a  grey  dawn  breaking. 

I  must  down  to  the  seas  again,  for  the  call  of  the  running 
tide 

Is  a  wild  call  and  a  clear  call  that  may  not  be  denied ; 

And  all  I  ask  is  a  windy  day  with  the  white  clouds  flying, 

And  the  flung  spray  and  the  blown  spume,  and  the  sea- 
gulls crying. 

I  must  down  to  the  seas  again  to  the  vagrant  gypsy  life, 
To  the  gull's  way  and  the  whale's  way  where  the  wind's 

like  a  whetted  knife ; 

And  all  I  ask  is  a  merry  yarn  from  a  laughing  fellow-rover, 
And  quiet  sleep  and  a  sweet  dream  when  the  long  trick's 

over. 


55 


A  WANDERER'S  SONG 

A  WIND'S  in  the  heart  of  me,  a  fire's  in  my  heels, 
I  am  tired  of  brick  and  stone  and  rumbling  wagon-wheels ; 
I  hunger  for  the  sea's  edge,  the  limits  of  the  land, 
Where  the  wild  old  Atlantic  is  shouting  on  the  sand. 

Oh  I'll  be  going,  leaving  the  noises  of  the  street, 

To  where  a  lifting  foresail-foot  is  yanking  at  the  sheet ; 

To  a  windy,  tossing  anchorage  where  yawls  and  ketches 

ride, 
Oh  I'll  be  going,  going,  until  I  meet  the  tide. 

And  first  I'll  hear  the  sea-wind,  the  mewing  of  the  gulls, 
The  clucking,  sucking  of  the  sea  about  the  rusty  hulls, 
The  songs  at  the  capstan  in  the  hooker  warping  out, 
And  then  the  heart  of  me'll  know  I'm  there  or  there- 
about. 

Oh  I  am  tired  of  brick  and  stone,  the  heart  of  me  is  sick, 
For  windy  green,  unquiet  sea,  the  realm  of  Moby  Dick; 
And  I'll  be  going,  going,  from  the  roaring  of  the  wheels, 
For  a  wind's  in  the  heart  of  me,  a  fire's  in  my  heels. 


CARDIGAN  BAY 

CLEAN,  green,  windy  billows  notching  out  the  sky, 
Grey  clouds  tattered  into  rags,  sea-winds  blowing  high, 
And  the  ships  under  topsails,  beating,  thrashing  by, 
And  the  mewing  of  the  herring  gulls. 

Dancing,  flashing  green  seas  shaking  white  locks, 
Boiling  in  blind  eddies  over  hidden  rocks, 
And  the  wind  in  the  rigging,  the  creaking  of  the  blocks, 
And  the  straining  of  the  timber  hulls. 

Delicate,  cool  sea-weeds,  green  and  amber-brown, 
In  beds  where  shaken  sunlight  slowly  filters  down 
On  many  a  drowned  seventy-four,  many  a  sunken  town, 
And  the  whitening  of  the  dead  men's  skulls. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  AT  SEA 

A  WIND  is  rustling  'south  and  soft/ 

Cooing  a  quiet  country  tune, 
The  calm  sea  sighs,  and  far  aloft 

The  sails  are  ghostly  in  the  moon. 

Unquiet  ripples  lisp  and  purr, 

A  block  there  pipes  and  chirps  i'  the  sheave, 
The  wheel-ropes  jar,  the  reef-points  stir 

Faintly  —  and  it  is  Christmas  Eve. 

The  hushed  sea  seems  to  hold  her  breath, 
And  o'er  the  giddy,  swaying  spars, 

Silent  and  excellent  as  Death, 

The  dim  blue  skies  are  bright  with  stars. 

Dear  God  —  they  shone  in  Palestine 
Like  this,  and  yon  pale  moon  serene 

Looked  down  among  the  lowing  kine 
On  Mary  and  the  Nazarene. 

The  angels  called  from  deep  to  deep, 
The  burning  heavens  felt  the  thrill, 

Startling  the  flocks  of  silly  sheep 
And  lonely  shepherds  on  the  hill. 
58 


Out  beyond  the  sunset,  could  I  but  find  the  way, 
Is  a  sleepy  blue  laguna  which  widens  to  a  bay, 
And  there's  the  Blessed  City  —  so  the  sailors  say  — 
The  Golden  City  of  St.  Mary. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  AT  SEA  59 

To-night  beneath  the  dripping  bows 

Where  flashing  bubbles  burst  and  throng, 

The  bow-wash  murmurs  and  sighs  and  soughs 
A  message  from  the  angel's  song. 

The  moon  goes  nodding  down  the  west, 
The  drowsy  helmsman  strikes  the  bell ; 

Rex  Judceorum  natus  est, 

I  charge  you,  brothers,  sing  Nozvell, 
Nowell, 

Rex  Judceorum  natus  est. 


A  BALLAD  OF  CAPE  ST.  VINCENT 

Now,  Bill,  ain't  it  prime  to  be  a-sailin', 

Slippin'  easy,  splashin'  up  the  sea, 
Dossin'  snug  aneath  the  weather-railin', 

Quiddin'  bonded  Jacky  out  a-lee  ? 
English  sea  astern  us  and  afore  us, 

Reaching  out  three  thousand  miles  ahead, 
God's  own  stars  a-risin'  solemn  o'er  us, 

And  —  yonder's  Cape  St.  Vincent  and  the  Dead. 

There  they  lie,  Bill,  man  and  mate  together, 

Dreamin'  out  the  dog-watch  down  below, 
Anchored  in  the  Port  of  Pleasant  Weather, 

Waiting  for  the  Bo'sun's  call  to  blow. 
Over  them  the  tide  goes  lappin',  swayin', 

Under  them's  the  wide  bay's  muddy  bed, 
And  it's  pleasant  dreams  —  to  them  —  to  hear  us  sayin', 

Yonder's  Cape  St.  Vincent  and  the  Dead. 

Hear  that  P.  and  O.  boat's  engines  dronin', 

Beating  out  of  time  and  out  of  tune, 
Ripping  past  with  every  plate  a-groanin', 

Spitting  smoke  and  cinders  at  the  moon  ? 
Ports  a-lit  like  little  stars  a-settin', 

See  'em  glintin'  yaller,  green,  and  red, 

60 


A  BALLAD  OF  CAPE  ST.  VINCENT    6l 

Loggin'  twenty  knots,  Bill,  —  but  forgettin', 
Yonder's  Cape  St.  Vincent  and  the  Dead. 

They're  'discharged'  now,  Billy,  'left  the  service,' 

Rough  an*  bitter  was  the  watch  they  stood, 
Drake  an'  Blake,  an'  Collingwood  an'  Jervis, 

Nelson,  Rodney,  Hawke,  an'  Howe  an'  Hood. 
They'd  a  hard  time,  haulin'  an'  directing 

There's  the  flag  they  left  us,  Billy  —  tread 
Straight  an'  keep  it  flyin'  —  recollectin', 

Yonder's  Cape  St.  Vincent  and  the  Dead. 


THE  TARRY  BUCCANEER 

I'M  going  to  be  a  pirate  with  a  bright  brass  pivot-gun, 
And  an  island  in  the  Spanish  Main  beyond  the  setting 

sun, 
And  a  silver  flagon  full  of  red  wine  to  drink  when  work  is 

done, 

Like  a  fine  old  salt-sea  scavenger,  like  a  tarry  Buc- 
caneer. 

With  a  sandy  creek  to  careen  in,  and  a  pig-tailed  Spanish 

mate, 

And  under  my  main-hatches  a  sparkling  merry  freight 
Of  doubloons  and  double  moidores  and  pieces  of  eight, 
Like  a  fine  old  salt-sea  scavenger,  like  a  tarry  Buc- 
caneer. 

With  a  taste  for  Spanish  wine-shops  and  for  spending 
my  doubloons, 

And  a  crew  of  swart   mulattoes  and  black-eyed   octo- 
roons, 

And  a  thoughtful  way  with  mutineers  of  making  them 
maroons, 

Like   a    fine   old    salt-sea    scavenger,  like  a  tarry  Buc- 
caneer. 

62 


I  must  down  to  the  seas  again,  for  the  call  of  the  running  tide 

Is  a  wild  call  and  a  clear  call  that  may  not  be  denied ; 

And  all  I  ask  is  a  windy  day  with  the  white  clouds  flying, 

And  the  flung  spray  and  the  blown  spume,  and  the  sea-gulls  crying. 


THE  TARRY  BUCCANEER  63 

With  a  sash  of  crimson  velvet  and  a  diamond-hilted  sword, 
And  a  silver  whistle  about  my  neck  secured  to  a  golden 

cord, 
And  a  habit  of  taking  captives  and  walking  them  along 

a  board, 

Like  a  fine  old  salt-sea  scavenger,  like  a  tarry  Buc- 
caneer. 

With  a  spy-glass  tucked  beneath  my  arm  and  a  cocked 
hat  cocked  askew, 

And  a  long  low  rakish  schooner  a-cutting  of  the  waves 
in  two, 

And  a  flag  of  skull  and  cross-bones  the  wickedest  that 

ever  flew, 

Like  a  fine  old  salt-sea  scavenger,  like  a  tarry  Buc- 
caneer. 


A  BALLAD  OF  JOHN  SILVER 

WE  were  schooner-rigged  and  rakish,  with  a  long  and 

lissome  hull, 
And  we  flew  the  pretty  colours  of  the  cross-bones  and 

the  skull ; 
We'd   a  big  black  Jolly  Roger  flapping  grimly  at  the 

fore, 
And  we  sailed  the  Spanish  Water  in  the  happy  days  of 

yore. 

We'd  a  long  brass  gun  amidships,  like  a  well-conducted 

ship, 

We  had  each  a  brace  of  pistols  and  a  cutlass  at  the  hip ; 
It's  a  point  which  tells  against  us,  and  a  fact  to  be  deplored, 
But  we  chased  the  goodly  merchant-men  and  laid  their 

ships  aboard. 

Then  the  dead  men  fouled  the  scuppers  and  the  wounded 

filled  the  chains, 
And  the  paint-work  all  was  spatter-dashed  with  other 

people's  brains, 
She  was  boarded,  she  was  looted,  she  was  scuttled  till 

she  sank, 
And  the  pale  survivors  left  us  by  the  medium  of  the 

plank. 

64 


A  BALLAD  OF  JOHN  SILVER  65 

O!  then  it  was  (while  standing  by  the  taffrail  on  the 

poop) 
We   could   hear   the   drowning  folk  lament   the   absent 

chicken-coop ; 
Then,   having  washed  the  blood  away,  we'd  little  else 

to  do 
Than  to  dance  a  quiet  hornpipe  as  the  old  salts  taught 

us  to. 

O !  the  fiddle  on  the  fo'c's'le,  and  the  slapping  naked 
soles, 

And  the  genial  'Down  the  middle,  Jake,  and  curtsey 
when  she  rolls !' 

With  the  silver  seas  around  us  and  the  pale  moon  over- 
head, 

And  the  look-out  not  a-looking  and  his  pipe-bowl  glowing 
red. 

Ah !  the  pig-tailed,  quidding  pirates  and  the  pretty  pranks 

we  played, 
All  have  since  been  put  a  stop-to  by  the  naughty  Board 

of  Trade ; 

The  schooners  and  the  merry  crews  are  laid  away  to  rest, 
A  little  south  the  sunset  in  the  Islands  of  the  Blest. 


LYRICS   FROM  'THE  BUCCANEER' 


WE  are  far  from  sight  of  the  harbour  lights, 

Of  the  sea-ports  whence  we  came, 
But  the  old  sea  calls  and  the  cold  wind  bites, 

And  our  hearts  are  turned  to  flame. 

And  merry  and  rich  is  the  goodly  gear 

We'll  win  upon  the  tossing  sea, 
A  silken  gown  for  my  dainty  dear, 

And  a  gold  doubloon  for  me. 

It's  the  old  old  road  and  the  old  old  quest 

Of  the  cut-throat  sons  of  Cain, 
South  by  west  and  a  quarter  west, 

And  hey  for  the  Spanish  Main. 

ii 

THERE'S  a  sea-way  somewhere  where  all  day  long 

Is  the  hushed  susurrus  of  the  sea, 
The  mewing  of  the  skuas,  and  the  sailor's  song. 

And  the  wind's  cry  calling  me. 

There's  a  haven  somewhere  where  the  quiet  of  the  bay 
Is  troubled  with  the  shifting  tide, 

66 


And  first  I'll  hear  the  sea-wind,  the  mewing  of  the  gulls, 
The  clucking,  sucking  of  the  sea  about  the  rusty  hulls, 
The  songs  at  the  capstan  in  the  hooker  warping  out, 
And  then  the  heart  of  me'll  know  I'm  there  or  thereabout. 


LYRICS   FROM   'THE   BUCCANEER'          67 

Where  the  gulls   are  flying,  crying  in   the  bright  white 

spray, 
And  the  tan-sailed  schooners  ride. 

in 

THE  toppling  rollers  at  the  harbour  mouth 

Are  spattering  the  bows  with  foam, 
And  the  anchor's  catted,  and  she's  heading  for  the  south 

With  her  topsails  sheeted  home. 

And  a  merry  measure  is  the  dance  she'll  tread 

(To  the  clanking  of  the  staysail's  hanks) 
When  the  guns  are  growling  and  the  blood  runs  red, 

And  the  prisoners  are  walking  of  the  planks. 


D'AVALOS'  PRAYER 

WHEN  the  last  sea  is  sailed  and  the  last  shallow  charted, 
When   the  last  field   is   reaped   and   the  last  harvest 

stored, 

When  the  last  fire  is  out  and  the  last  guest  departed, 
Grant  the  last  prayer  that  I  shall  pray,  Be  good  to 
me,  O  Lord ! 

And  let  me  pass  in  a  night  at  sea,  a  night  of  storm  and 

thunder, 
In  the  loud  crying  of  the  wind  through  sail  and  rope 

and  spar; 
Send  me  a  ninth  great  peaceful  wave  to  drown  and  roll 

me  under 

To   the  cold   tunny-fishes'   home  where  the   drowned 
galleons  are. 

And  in  the  dim  green  quiet  place  far  out  of  sight  and 

hearing, 
Grant  I  may  hear  at  whiles  the  wash  and  thresh  of  the 

sea-foam 

About  the  fine  keen  bows  of  the  stately  clippers  steering 
Towards  the  lone  northern  star  and  the  fair  ports  of 
home. 

68 


SEA  PICTURES 


FROM  PHILIP   THE  KING 

MESSENGER 

WE  were  to  ship  the  troops  in  Calais  Road ; 
They  lay  encamped,  prepared  to  go  aboard. 
To  windward  still  the  English  fleet  abode  — 
Still  as  in  port  when  peace  has  been  restored. 

The  wind  and  sea  were  fair, 
We  lay  at  anchor  there ; 
The  stars  burned  in  the  air, 
The  men  were  sleeping, 
When  in  the  midnight  dark 
Our  watchman  saw  a  spark 
Suddenly  light  a  bark 
With  long  flames  leaping. 

Then,  as  they  stood  amazed, 
Others  and  others  blazed  ; 
Then  terror  set  them  crazed, 
They  ran  down  screaming : 
"  Fire-ships  are  coming  !     Wake  ! 
Cast  loose,  for  Jesus'  sake  ! 
Eight  fire-ships  come  from  Drake  — 
Look  at  their  gleaming !" 
7i 


72  SEA  PICTURES 

Roused  in  the  dark  from  bed, 
We  saw  the  fire  show  red, 
And  instant  panic  spread 
Through  troops  and  sailors ; 
They  swarmed  on  deck  unclad, 
They  did  what  terror  bade, 
King,  they  were  like  the  mad 
Escaped  from  jailers. 

Some  prayed  for  mercy,  some 

Rang  bells  or  beat  the  drum, 

As  though  despair  had  come 

At  hell's  contriving; 

Captains  with  terror  pale 

Screamed  through  the  dark  their  hail, 

"Cut  cable,  loose  the  sail, 

And  set  all  driving!" 

Heading  all  ways  at  once, 
Grinding  each  other's  guns, 
Our  blundering  galleons 
Athwart-hawse  galleys, 
Timbers  and  plankings  cleft, 
And  half  our  tackling  reft, 
Your  grand  Armada  left 
The  roads  of  Calais. 

Weary  and  overwrought 
We  strove  to  make  all  taut; 
But  when  the  morning  brought 


I  must  down  to  the  seas  again,  to  the  lonely  sea  and  the  sky, 
And  all  I  ask  is  a  tall  ship  and  a  star  to  steer  her  by, 


SEA  PICTURES  73 

The  dawn  to  light  us, 
Drake,  with  the  weather  gage, 
Made  signal  to  engage, 
And,  like  a  pard  in  rage, 
Bore  down  to  fight  us. 

Nobly  the  English  line 
Trampled  the  bubbled  brine; 
We  heard  the  gun-trucks  whine 
To  the  taut  laniard. 
Onwards  we  saw  them  forge, 
White  billowing  at  the  gorge. 
"On,  on !"  they  cried,  "St.  George! 
Down  with  the  Spaniard  !" 

From  their  van  squadron  broke 
A  withering  battle-stroke, 
Tearing  our  planked  oak 
By  straiks  asunder, 
Blasting  the  wood  like  rot 
With  such  a  hail  of  shot, 
So  constant  and  so  hot 
It  beat  us  under. 

The  English  would  not  close ; 
They  fought  us  as  they  chose, 
Dealing  us  deadly  blows 
For  seven  hours. 


74  SEA  PICTURES 

Lords  of  our  chiefest  rank 
The  bitter  billow  drank, 
For  there  the  English  sank 
Three  ships  of  ours. 


Then  the  wind  forced  us  northward  from  the  fight ; 

We  could  not  ship  the  army  nor  return ; 

We  held  the  sea  in  trouble  through  the  night, 

Watching  the  English  signals  blink  and  burn. 

The  English  in  a  dim  cloud  kept  astern ; 

All  night  they  signalled,  while  our  shattered  ships 

Huddled  like  beasts  beneath  the  drovers'  whips. 


At  dawn  the  same  wind  held ;   we  could  not  strive. 
The  English  drove  us  north  as  herdsmen  drive. 


Under  our  tattered  flags, 
With  rigging  cut  to  rags, 
Our  ships  like  stricken  stags 
Were  heaped  and  hounded. 
Caught  by  the  unknown  tide, 
With  neither  chart  nor  guide, 
We  fouled  the  Holland  side, 
Where  four  more  grounded. 


SEA  PICTURES  75 

Our  water-casks  were  burst, 
The  horses  died  of  thirst, 
The  wounded  raved  and  curst, 
Uncared,  untended. 
All  night  we  heard  the  crying 
Of  lonely  shipmates  dying ; 
We  had  to  leave  them  lying. 
So  the  fight  ended. 

PHILIP 

God  gives  His  victory  as  He  wills.     But  this 

Was  not  complete  destruction.     What  thing  worse 

Came  to  destroy  you  ? 

MESSENGER 

An  avenging  curse, 
Due  for  old  sins,  destroyed  us. 

PHILIP 

Tell    the   tale. 
MESSENGER 

O  King,  when  morning  dawned  it  blew  a  gale, 
But  still  the  English  followed,  and  we  fled 
Till  breakers  made  the  dirty  waters  pale. 
We  saw  the  Zealand  sandbanks  right  ahead, 
Blind  in  a  whirling  spray  that  gave  us  dread ; 
For  we  were  blown  there,  and  the  water  shoaled. 
The  crying  of  the  leadsmen  at  the  lead, 
Calling  the  soundings,  were  our  deathbells  tolled. 


SEA  PICTURES 

We  drifted  down  to  death  upon  the  sands  — 
The  English  drew  away  to  watch  us  drown ; 
We  saw  the  bitter  breakers  with  grey  hands 
Tear  the  dead  body  of  the  sandbank  brown. 
We  could  do  nothing,  so  we  drifted  down 
Singing  the  psalms  for  death  —  we  who  had  been 
Lords  of  the  sea  and  knights  of  great  renown, 
Doomed  to  be  strangled  by  a  death  unclean. 

PHILIP 
So  there  the  ships  were  wrecked  ? 

MESSENGER 

Time  had  not  struck. 

O  King,  we  learned  how  blessed  mercy  saves : 
Even  as  our  forefoot  grounded  on  the  muck, 
Tripping  us  up  to  drown  us  in  the  waves, 
A  sudden  windshift  snatched  us  from  our  graves 
And  drove  us  north ;   and  now  another  woe, 
Tempest  unending,  beat  our  ships  to  staves  — 
A  never-dying  gale  with  frost  and  snow. 

Now  our  hearts  failed,  for  food  and  water  failed ; 
The  men  fell  sick  by  troops,  the  wounded  died. 
They  washed  about  the  wet  decks  as  we  sailed 
For  want  of  strength  to  lift  them  overside. 
Desolate  seas  we  sailed,  so  grim,  so  wide, 
That  ship  by  ship  our  comrades  disappeared. 
With  neither  sun  nor  star  to  be  a  guide, 
Like  spirits  of  the  wretched  dead  we  steered. 


SEA  PICTURES  77 

Till,  having  beaten  through  the  Pentland  Pass, 

We  saw  the  Irish  surf,  with  mists  of  spray 

Blowing  far  inland,  blasting  trees  and  grass, 

And  gave  God  thanks,  for  we  espied  a  bay 

Safe,  with  bright  water  running  down  the  clay  — 

A  running  brook  where  we  could  drink  and  drink. 

But  drawing  near,  our  ships  were  cast  away, 

Bilged  on  the  rocks ;  we  saw  our  comrades  sink  .  .  . 

Or  worse  :  for  those  the  breakers  cast  ashore 

The  Irish  killed  and  stripped ;  their  bodies  white 

Lay  naked  to  the  wolves  —  yea,  sixty  score  — 

All  down  the  windy  beach,  a  piteous  sight. 

The  savage  Irish  watched  by  bonfire  light 

Lest  more  should  come  ashore ;  we  heard  them  there 

Screaming  the  bloody  news  of  their  delight. 

Then  we  abandoned  hope  and  new  despair. 

And  now  the  fleet  is  sunken  in  the  sea, 
And  all  the  seamen,  all  the  might  of  Spain, 
Are  dead,  O  King,  and  out  of  misery, 
Never  to  drag  at  frozen  ropes  again  — 
Never  to  know  defeat,  nor  feel  the  pain 
Of  watching  dear  companions  sink  and  die. 
Death's  everlasting  armistice  to  the  brain 
Gives  their  poor  griefs  quietus ;   let  them  lie. 

I,  like  a  ghost  returning  from  the  grave, 
Come  from  a  stricken  ship  to  tell  the  news 
Of  Spanish  honour  which  we  could  not  save, 


78  SEA  PICTURES 

Nor  win  again,  nor  even  die  to  lose ; 
And  since  God's  hidden  wisdom  loves  to  bruise 
Those  whom  He  loves,  we,  trembling  in  despair, 
Will  watch  our  griefs  to  see  God's  finger  there, 
And  make  His  will  our  solace  and  excuse. 

Defeat  is  bitter  and  the  truth  is  hard  — 
Spain  is  defeated,  England  has  prevailed ; 
This  is  the  banner  which  I  could  not  guard, 
And  this  the  consecrated  sword  which  failed. 
Do  with  your  dying  Captain  as  you  will. 


FROM  DAUBER 

FOUR  bells  were  struck,  the  watch  was  called  on  deck, 

All  work  aboard  was  over  for  the  hour, 

And  some  men  sang  and  others  played  at  check, 

Or  mended  clothes  or  watched  the  sunset  glower. 

The  bursting  west  was  like  an  opening  flower, 

And  one  man  watched  it  till  the  light  was  dim, 

But  no  one  went  across  to  talk  to  him. 

He  was  the  painter  in  that  swift  ship's  crew, 
Lampman  and  painter  —  tall,  a  slight-built  man, 
Young  for  his  years,  and  not  yet  twenty- two ; 
Sickly,  and  not  yet  brown  with  the  sea's  tan. 
Bullied  and  damned  at  since  the  voyage  began, 
"Being  neither  man  nor  seaman  by  his  tally," 
He  bunked  with  the  idlers  just  abaft  the  galley. 

His  work  began  at  five ;   he  worked  all  day, 

Keeping  no  watch  and  having  all  night  in. 

His  work  was  what  the  mate  might  care  to  say ; 

He  mixed  red  lead  in  many  a  bouilli  tin ; 

His  dungarees  were  smeared  with  paraffin. 

"Go    drown    himself"    his    round-house    mates    advised 

him, 

And  all  hands  called  him  "Dauber"  and  despised  him. 

79 


8o  SEA  PICTURES 

Si,  the  apprentice,  stood  beside  the  spar, 
Stripped  to  the  waist,  a  basin  at  his  side, 
Slushing  his  hands  to  get  away  the  tar, 
And  then  he  washed  himself  and  rinsed  and  dried ; 
Towelling  his  face,  hair-towzelled,  eager  eyed, 
He  crossed  the  spar  to  Dauber,  and  there  stood 
Watching  the  gold  of  heaven  turn  to  blood. 

They  stood  there  by  the  rail  while  the  swift  ship 

Tore  on  out  of  the  tropics,  straining  her  sheets, 

Whitening  her  trackway  to  a  milky  strip, 

Dim  with  green  bubbles  and  twisted  water  meets, 

Her  clacking  tackle  tugged  at  pins  and  cleats, 

Her  great  sails  bellied  stiff,  her  great  masts  leaned  : 

They  watched  how  the  seas  struck  and  burst  and  greened. 

Si  talked  with  Dauber,  standing  by  the  side. 
"Why  did  you  come  to  sea,  painter?"  he  said. 
"I  want  to  be  a  painter,"  he  replied, 
"And  know  the  sea  and  ships  from  A  to  Z, 
And  paint  great  ships  at  sea  before  I'm  dead  ; 
Ships  under  skysails  running  down  the  Trade  — 
Ships  and  the  sea ;  there's  nothing  finer  made. 

"  But  there's  so  much  to  learn,  with  sails  and  ropes, 
And  how  the  sails  look,  full  or  being  furled, 
And  how  the  lights  change  in  the  troughs  and  slopes, 
And  the  sea's  colours  up  and  down  the  world, 
And  how  a  storm  looks  when  the  sprays  are  hurled 


\\Y; 


The  bursting  west  was  like  an  opening  flower, 
And  one  man  watched  it  till  the  light  was  dim. 


SEA  PICTURES  81 

High  as  the  yard  (they  say)  I  want  to  see ; 
There's  none  ashore  can  teach  such  things  to  me. 

"And  then  the  men  and  rigging,  and  the  way 
Ships  move,  running  or  beating,  and  the  poise 
At  the  roll's  end,  the  checking  in  the  sway  — 
I  want  to  paint  them  perfect,  short  of  the  noise ; 
And  then  the  life,  the  half-decks  full  of  boys, 
The  fo'c'sles  with  the  men  there,  dripping  wet : 
I  know  the  subjects  that  I  want  to  get. 

"  It's  not  been  done,  the  sea,  not  yet  been  done, 

From  the  inside,  by  one  who  really  knows ; 

I'd  give  up  all  if  I  could  be  the  one, 

But  art  comes  dear  the  way  the  money  goes. 

So  I  have  come  to  sea,  and  I  suppose 

Three  years  will  teach  me  all  I  want  to  learn 

And  make  enough  to  keep  me  till  I  earn." 

Even  as  he  spoke  his  busy  pencil  moved, 
Drawing  the  leap  of  water  off  the  side 
Where  the  great  clipper  trampled  iron-hooved, 
Making  the  blue  hills  of  the  sea  divide, 
Shearing  a  glittering  scatter  in  her  stride, 
And  leaping  on  full  tilt  with  all  sails  drawing, 
Proud  as  a  war-horse,  snuffing  battle,  pawing. 

"I  cannot  get  it  yet  —  not  yet,"  he  said ; 

"That  leap  and  light,  and  sudden  change  to  green, 


82  SEA  PICTURES 

And  all  the  glittering  from  the  sunset's  red, 
And  the  milky  colours  where  the  bursts  have  been, 
And  then  the  clipper  striding  like  a  queen 
Over  it  all,  all  beauty  to  the  crown. 
I  see  it  all,  I  cannot  put  it  down. 

"  It's  hard  not  to  be  able.     There,  look  there ! 

I  cannot  get  the  movement  nor  the  light ; 

Sometimes  it  almost  makes  a  man  despair 

To  try  and  try  and  never  get  it  right. 

Oh,  if  I  could  —  oh,  if  I  only  might, 

I  wouldn't  mind  what  hells  I'd  have  to  pass, 

Not  if  the  whole  world  called  me  fool  and  ass." 

Down  sank  the  crimson  sun  into  the  sea, 

The  wind  cut  chill  at  once,  the  west  grew  dun. 

"Out  sidelights!"  called  the  mate.     "Hi,  where  is  he?" 

The    Boatswain    called,    "Out    sidelights,    damn    you! 

Run!" 

"He's  always  late  or  lazing,"  murmured  one  — 
"The  Dauber,  with  his  sketching."     Soon  the  tints 
Of  red  and  green  passed  on  dark  water-glints. 

Darker  it  grew,  still  darker,  and  the  stars 

Burned  golden,  and  the  fiery  fishes  came. 

The  wire-note  loudened  from  the  straining  spars ; 

The  sheet-blocks  clacked  together  always  the  same ; 

The  rushing  fishes  streaked  the  seas  with  flame, 

Racing  the  one  speed  noble  as  their  own  : 

What  unknown  joy  was  in  those  fish  unknown ! 


SEA  PICTURES  83 

Just  by  the  round-house  door,  as  it  grew  dark, 

The  Boatswain  caught  the  Dauber  with,  "Now,  you; 

Till  now  I've  spared  you,  damn  you !  now  you  hark : 

I've  just  had  hell  for  what  you  didn't  do; 

I'll  have  you  broke  and  sent  among  the  crew 

If  you  get  me  more  trouble  by  a  particle. 

Don't  you  forget,  you  daubing,  useless  article ! 

"You  thing,  you  twice-laid  thing  from  Port  Mahon!" 
Then  came  the  Cook's  "  Is  that  the  Dauber  there  ? 
Why  don't  you  leave  them  stinking  paints  alone  ? 
They  stink  the  house  out,  poisoning  all  the  air. 
Just   take   them   out."     "Where   to?"     "I    don't   care 

where. 

I  won't  have  stinking  paint  here."     From  their  plates  : 
"That's  right ;  wet  paint  breeds  fever,"  growled  his  mates. 

He  took  his  still  wet  drawings  from  the  berth 
And  climbed  the  ladder  to  the  deck-house  top ; 
Beneath,  the  noisy  half-deck  rang  with  mirth, 
For  two  ship's  boys  were  putting  on  the  strop : 
One,  clambering  up  to  let  the  skylight  drop, 
Saw  him  bend  down  beneath  a  boat  and  lay 
His  drawings  there,  till  all  were  hid  away, 

And  stand  there  silent,  leaning  on  the  boat, 
Watching  the  constellations  rise  and  burn, 
Until  the  beauty  took  him  by  the  throat, 
So  stately  is  their  glittering  overturn ; 
Armies  of  marching  eyes,  armies  that  yearn 


84  SEA  PICTURES 

With  banners  rising  and  falling,  and  passing  by 
Over  the  empty  silence  of  the  sky. 

The  Dauber  sighed  there  looking  at  the  sails, 
Wind-steadied  arches  leaning  on  the  night, 
The  high  trucks  traced  on  heaven  and  .left  no  trails ; 
The  moonlight  made  the  topsails  almost  white, 
The  passing  sidelight  seemed  to  drip  green  light. 
And  on  the  clipper  rushed  with  fire-bright  bows ; 
He  sighed,  "I'll  never  do't,"  and  left  the  house. 

"Now,"  said  the  reefer,  "up!     Come,  Sam;  come,  Si, 

Dauber's  been  hiding  something."     Up  they  slid, 

Treading  on  naked  tiptoe  stealthily 

To  grope  for  treasure  at  the  long-boat  skid. 

"Drawings  !"  said  Sam.     "Is  this  what  Dauber  hid  ? 

Lord !     I  expected  pudding,  not  this  rot. 

Still,  come,  we'll  have  some  fun  with  what  we've  got." 

They  smeared  the  paint  with  turpentine  until 

They  could  remove  with  mess-clouts  every  trace 

Of  quick  perception  caught  by  patient  skill, 

And  lines  that  had  brought  blood  into  his  face. 

They  wiped  the  pigments  off,  and  did  erase, 

With  knives,  all  sticking  clots.     When  they  had  done, 

Under  the  boat  they  laid  them  every  one. 

All  he  had  drawn  since  first  he  came  to  sea, 

His  six  weeks'  leisure  fruits,  they  laid  them  there. 


SEA  PICTURES  85 

They  chuckled  then  to  think  how  mad  he'd  be 

Finding  his  paintings  vanished  into  air. 

Eight  bells  were  struck,  and  feet  from  everywhere 

Went  shuffling  aft  to  muster  in  the  dark ; 

The  mate's  pipe  glowed  above,  a  dim  red  spark. 

Names  in  the  darkness  passed  and  voices  cried ; 
The  red  spark  glowed  and  died,  the  faces  seemed 
As  things  remembered  when  a  brain  has  died, 
To  all  but  high  intenseness  deeply  dreamed. 
Like  hissing  spears  the  fishes'  fire  streamed, 
And  on  the  clipper  rushed  with  tossing  mast, 
A  bath  of  flame  broke  round  her  as  she  passed. 

The  watch  was  set,  the  night  came,  and  the  men 
Hid  from  the  moon  in  shadowed  nooks  to  sleep, 
Bunched  like  the  dead ;  still,  like  the  dead,  as  when 
Plague  in  a  city  leaves  none  even  to  weep. 
The  ship's  track  brightened  to  a  mile-broad  sweep ; 
The  mate  there  felt  her  pulse,  and  eyed  the  spars : 
South-west  by  south  she  staggered  under  the  stars. 

Down  in  his  bunk  the  Dauber  lay  awake 
Thinking  of  his  unfitness  for  the  sea. 
Each  failure,  each  derision,  each  mistake, 
There  in  the  life  not  made  for  such  as  he ; 
A  morning  grim  with  trouble  sure  to  be, 
A  noon  of  pain  from  failure,  and  a  night 
Bitter  with  men's  contemning  and  despite. 


86  SEA  PICTURES 

This  in  the  first  beginning,  the  green  leaf, 
Still  in  the  Trades  before  bad  weather  fell ; 
What  harvest  would  he  reap  of  hate  and  grief 
When  the  loud  Horn  made  every  life  a  hell  ? 
When  the  sick  ship  lay  over,  clanging  her  bell, 
And  no  time  came  for  painting  or  for  drawing, 
But  all  hands  fought,  and  icy  death  came  clawing  ? 

Hell,  he  expected,  —  hell.     His  eyes  grew  blind  ; 
The  snoring  from  his  messmates  droned  and  snuffled, 
And  then  a  gush  of  pity  calmed  his  mind. 
The  cruel  torment  of  his  thought  was  muffled, 
Without,  on  deck,  an  old,  old  seaman  shuffled, 
Humming  his  song,  and  through  the  open  door 
A  moonbeam  moved  and  thrust  along  the  floor. 

The  green  bunk  curtains  moved,  the  brass  rings  clicked, 
The  Cook  cursed  in  his  sleep,  turning  and  turning, 
The  moonbeams'  moving  finger  touched  and  picked, 
And  all  the  stars  in  all  the  sky  were  burning. 
"This  is  the  art  I've  come  for,  and  am  learning, 
The  sea  and  ships  and  men  and  travelling  things. 
It  is  most  proud,  whatever  pain  it  brings." 

He  leaned  upon  his  arm  and  watched  the  light 

Sliding  and  fading  to  the  steady  roll ; 

This  he  would  some  day  paint,  the  ship  at  night, 

And  sleeping  seamen  tired  to  the  soul ; 

The  space  below  the  bunks  as  black  as  coal, 


SEA  PICTURES  87 

Gleams  upon  chests,  upon  the  unlit  lamp, 
The  ranging  door  hook,  and  the  locker  clamp. 

This  he  would  paint,  and  that,  and  all  these  scenes, 

And  proud  ships  carrying  on,  and  men  their  minds, 

And  blues  of  rollers  toppling  into  greens, 

And  shattering  into  white  that  bursts  and  blinds, 

And  scattering  ships  running  erect  like  hinds, 

And  men  in  oilskins  beating  down  a  sail 

High  on  the  yellow  yard,  in  snow,  in  hail. 

With  faces  ducked  down  from  the  slanting  drive 
Of  half-thawed  hail  mixed  with  half-frozen  spray, 
The  roaring  canvas  like  a  thing  alive, 
Shaking  the  mast,  knocking  their  hands  away, 
The  foot-ropes  jerking  to  the  tug  and  sway, 
The  savage  eyes  salt-reddened  at  the  rims, 
And  icicles  on  the  south-wester  brims. 

And  sunnier  scenes  would  grow  under  his  brush, 
The  tropic  dawn  with  all  things  dropping  dew, 
The  darkness  and  the  wonder  and  the  hush, 
The  insensate  grey  before  the  marvel  grew ; 
Then  the  veil  lifted  from  the  trembling  blue, 
The  walls  of  sky  burst  in,  the  flower,  the  rose, 
All  the  expanse  of  heaven  a  mind  that  glows. 

He  turned  out  of  his  bunk ;  the  Cook  still  tossed, 
One  of  the  other  two  spoke  in  his  sleep. 


88  SEA  PICTURES 

A  cockroach  scuttled  where  the  moonbeam  crossed ; 
Outside  there  was  the  ship,  the  night,  the  deep. 
"It  is  worth  while,"  the  youth  said ;  "I  will  keep 
To  my  resolve,  I'll  learn  to  paint  all  this. 
My  Lord,  my  God,  how  beautiful  it  is  !" 

Outside  was  the  ship's  rush  to  the  wind's  hurry, 

A  resonant  wire-hum  from  every  rope, 

The  broadening  bow-wash  in  a  fiery  flurry, 

The  leaning  masts  in  their  majestic  slope, 

And  all  things  strange  with  moonlight :    filled  with  hope 

By  all  that  beauty  going  as  man  bade, 

He  turned  and  slept  in  peace.     Eight  bells  were  made. 


That  night  the  snow  fell  between  six  and  seven, 

A  little  feathery  fall  so  light,  so  dry  — 

An  aimless  dust  out  of  a  confused  heaven, 

Upon  an  air  no  steadier  than  a  sigh ; 

The  powder  dusted  down  and  wandered  by 

So  purposeless,  so  many,  and  so  cold, 

Then  died,  and  the  wind  ceased  and  the  ship  rolled. 

Rolled  till  she  clanged  —  rolled  till  the  brain  was  tired, 

Marking  the  acme  of  the  heaves,  the  pause 

While  the  sea-beauty  rested  and  respired, 

Drinking  great  draughts  of  roller  at  her  hawse. 

Flutters  of  snow  came  aimless  upon  flaws. 

"Lock  up  your  paints,"  the  Mate  said,  speaking  light: 

"This  is  the  Horn;   you'll  join  my  watch  to-night J" 


SEA  PICTURES  89 

All  through  the  windless  night  the  clipper  rolled 

In  a  great  swell  with  oily  gradual  heaves 

Which  rolled  her  down  until  her  time-bells  tolled, 

Clang,  and  the  weltering  water  moaned  like  beeves. 

The  thundering  rattle  of  slatting  shook  the  sheaves, 

Startles  of  water  made  the  swing  ports  gush, 

The  sea  was  moaning  and  sighing  and  saying  "Hush!" 

It  was  all  black  and  starless.     Peering  down 
Into  the  water,  trying  to  pierce  the  gloom, 
One  saw  a  dim,  smooth,  oily  glitter  of  brown 
Heaving  and  dying  away  and  leaving  room 
For  yet  another.     Like  the  march  of  doom 
Came  those  great  powers  of  marching  silences ; 
Then  fog  came  down,  dead-cold,  and  hid  the  seas. 

They  set  the  Dauber  to  the  foghorn.     There 
He  stood  upon  the  poop,  making  to  sound 
Out  of  the  pump  the  sailor's  nasal  blare, 
Listening  lest  ice  should  make  the  note  resound. 
She  bayed  there  like  a  solitary  hound 
Lost  in  a  covert ;   all  the  watch  she  bayed. 
The  fog,  come  closelier  down,  no  answer  made. 

Denser  it  grew,  until  the  ship  was  lost. 

The  elemental  hid  her ;   she  was  merged 

In  mufflings  of  dark  death,  like  a  man's  ghost, 

New  to  the  change  of  death,  yet  thither  urged. 

Then  from  the  hidden  waters  something  surged  — 


90  SEA  PICTURES 

Mournful,  despairing,  great,  greater  than  speech, 
A  noise  like  one  slow  wave  on  a  still  beach. 

Mournful,  and  then  again  mournful,  and  still 

Out  of  the  night  that  mighty  voice  arose ; 

The  Dauber  at  his  foghorn  felt  the  thrill. 

Who  rode  that  desolate  sea  ?     What  forms  were  those  ? 

Mournful,  from  things  defeated,  in  the  throes 

Of  memory  of  some  conquered  hunting-ground, 

Out  of  the  night  of  death  arose  the  sound. 

"Whales!"  said  the  Mate.     They  stayed  there  all  night 

long 

Answering  the  horn,     Out  of  the  night  they  spoke, 
Defeated  creatures  who  had  suffered  wrong, 
But  were  still  noble  underneath  the  stroke. 
They  filled  the  darkness  when  the  Dauber  woke ; 
The  men  came  peering  to  the  rail  to  hear, 
And  the  sea  sighed,  and  the  fog  rose  up  sheer. 

A  wall  of  nothing  at  the  world's  last  edge, 

Where  no  life  came  except  defeated  life. 

The  Dauber  felt  shut  in  within  a  hedge, 

Behind  which  form  was  hidden  and  thought  was  rife, 

And  that  a  blinding  flash,  a  thrust,  a  knife 

Would  sweep  the  hedge  away  and  make  all  plain, 

Brilliant  beyond  all  words,  blinding  the  brain. 

So  the  night  passed,  but  then  no  morning  broke  — 
Only  a  something  showed  that  night  was  dead. 


So  the  night  passed,  but  then  no  morning  broke  — 
Only  a  something  showed  that  night  was  dead. 


SEA  PICTURES  91 

A  sea-bird,  cackling  like  a  devil,  spoke, 
And  the  fog  drew  away  and  hung  like  lead. 
Like  mighty  cliffs  it  shaped,  sullen  and  red ; 
Like  glowering  gods  at  watch  it  did  appear, 
And  sometimes  drew  away,  and  then  drew  near. 

Like  islands,  and  like  chasms,  and  like  hell, 

But  always  mighty  and  red,  gloomy  and  ruddy, 

Shutting  the  visible  sea  in  like  a  well ; 

Slow  heaving  in  vast  ripples,  blank  and  muddy, 

Where  the  sun  should  have  risen  it  streaked  bloody. 

The  day  was  still-born ;   all  the  sea-fowl  scattering 

Splashed  the  still  water,  mewing,  hovering,  clattering. 

Then  Polar  snow  came  down  little  and  light, 
Till  all  the  sky  was  hidden  by  the  small, 
Most  multitudinous  drift  of  dirty  white 
Tumbling  and  wavering  down  and  covering  all  — 
Covering  the  sky,  the  sea,  the  clipper  tall, 
Furring  the  ropes  with  white,  casing  the  mast, 
Coming  on  no  known  air,  but  blowing  past. 

And  all  the  air  seemed  full  of  gradual  moan, 

As  though  in  those  cloud-chasms  the  horns  were  blowing 

The  mort  for  gods  cast  out  and  overthrown, 

Or  for  the  eyeless  sun  plucked  out  and  going. 

Slow  the  low  gradual  moan  came  in  the  snowing; 

The  Dauber  felt  the  prelude  had  begun. 

The  snowstorm  fluttered  by ;  he  saw  the  sun 


92  SEA  PICTURES 

Show  and  pass  by,  gleam  from  one  towering  prison 

Into  another,  vaster  and  more  grim, 

Which  in  dull  crags  of  darkness  had  arisen 

To  muffle-to  a  final  door  on  him. 

The  gods  upon  the  dull  crags  lowered  dim, 

The  pigeons  chattered,  quarrelling  in  the  track. 

In  the  south-west  the  dimness  dulled  to  black. 

^ 

Then  came  the  cry  of  "Call  all  hands  on  deck!" 
The  Dauber  knew  its  meaning ;  it  was  come : 
Cape  Horn,  that  tramples  beauty  into  wreck, 
And  crumples  steel  and  smites  the  strong  man  dumb. 
Down  clattered  flying  kites  and  staysails  :  some 
Sang  out  in  quick,  high  calls  :   the  fair-leads  skirled 
And  from  the  south-west  came  the  end  of  the  world. 

"Caught  in  her  ball-dress,"  said  the  Bosun,  hauling; 
"Lee-ay,  lee-ay!"  quick,  high,  came  the  men's  call; 
It  was  all  wallop  of  sails  and  startled  calling. 
"Let    fly!"     "Let    go!"     "Clew    up!"    and    "Let    go 

all!" 

"  Now  up  and  make  them  fast ! "  "  Here,  give  us  a  haul ! " 
"Now  up  and  stow  them  !  Quick  !  By  God  !  we're  done  !" 
The  blackness  crunched  all  memory  of  the  sun. 

"Up!"  said  the  Mate.     "  Mizzen  top-gallants.     Hurry!" 
The  Dauber  ran,  the  others  ran,  the  sails 
Slatted  and  shook ;  out  of  the  black  a  flurry 
Whirled  in  fine  lines,  tattering  the  edge  to  trails. 


SEA  PICTURES  93 

Painting  and  art  and  England  were  old  tales 

Told  in  some  other  life  to  that  pale  man, 

Who  struggled  with  white  fear  and  gulped  and  ran. 

He  struck  a  ringbolt  in  his  haste  and  fell  — 

Rose,  sick  with  pain,  half-lamed  in  his  left  knee ; 

He  reached  the  shrouds  where  clambering  men  pell-mell 

Hustled  each  other  up  and  cursed  him ;   he 

Hurried  aloft  with  them  :   then  from  the  sea 

Came  a  cold,  sudden  breath  that  made  the  hair 

Stiff  on  the  neck,  as  though  Death  whispered  there. 

A  man  below  him  punched  him  in  the  side. 

"Get  up,  you  Dauber,  or  let  me  get  past." 

He  saw  the  belly  of  the  skysail  skied, 

Gulped,  and  clutched  tight,  and  tried  to  go  more  fast. 

Sometimes  he  missed  his  ratline  and  was  grassed, 

Scraped  his  shin  raw  against  the  rigid  line. 

The  clamberers  reached  the  futtock-shrouds'  incline. 

Cursing  they  came ;   one,  kicking  out  behind, 

Kicked  Dauber  in  the  mouth,  and  one  below 

Punched  at  his  calves ;   the  futtock-shrouds  inclined. 

It  was  a  perilous  path  for  one  to  go. 

"Up,  Dauber,  up !"     A  curse  followed  a  blow. 

He  reached  the  top  and  gasped,  then  on,  then  on. 

And  one  voice  yelled  "Let  go !"  and  one  "All  gone !" 

Fierce  clamberers,  some  in  oilskins,  some  in  rags, 
Hustling  and  hurrying  up,  up  the  steep  stairs. 


94  SEA  PICTURES 

Before  the  windless  sails  were  blown  to  flags, 

And  whirled  like  dirty  birds  athwart  great  airs, 

Ten  men  in  all,  to  get  this  mast  of  theirs 

Snugged  to  the  gale  in  time.     "Up  !  Damn  you,  run !" 

The  mizzen  topmast  head  was  safely  won. 

"Lay  out!"  the  Bosun  yelled.     The  Dauber  laid 
Out  on  the  yard,  gripping  the  yard,  and  feeling 
Sick  at  the  mighty  space  of  air  displayed 
Below  his  feet,  where  mewing  birds  were  wheeling. 
A  giddy  fear  was  on  him ;  he  was  reeling. 
He  bit  his  lip  half  through,  clutching  the  jack. 
A  cold  sweat  glued  the  shirt  upon  his  back. 

The  yard  was  shaking,  for  a  brace  was  loose. 

He  felt  that  he  would  fall ;   he  clutched,  he  bent, 

Clammy  with  natural  terror  to  the  shoes 

While  idiotic  promptings  came  and  went. 

Snow  fluttered  on  a  wind-flaw  and  was  spent  ; 

He  saw  the  water  darken.     Someone  yelled, 

"Frap  it;  don't  stay  to  furl !     Hold  on  !"     He  held. 

Darkness  came  down  —  half  darkness  —  in  a  whirl ; 
The  sky  went  out,  the  waters  disappeared. 
He  felt  a  shocking  pressure  of  blowing  hurl 
The  ship  upon  her  side.     The  darkness  speared 
At  her  with  wind ;   she  staggered,  she  careered, 
Then  down  she  lay.     The  Dauber  felt  her  go ; 
He  saw  his  yard  tilt  downwards.     Then  the  snow 


SEA  PICTURES  95 

Whirled  all  about  —  dense,  multitudinous,  cold  — 
Mixed  with  the  wind's  one  devilish  thrust  and  shriek, 
Which  whiffled  out  men's  tears,  deafened,  took  hold, 
Flattening  the  flying  drift  against  the  cheek. 
The  yards  buckled  and  bent,  man  could  not  speak. 
The  ship  lay  on  her  broadside;   the  wind's  sound 
Had  devilish  malice  at  having  got  her  downed. 


How  long  the  gale  had  blown  he  could  not  tell, 
Only  the  world  had  changed,  his  life  had  died. 
A  moment  now  was  everlasting  hell. 
Nature  an  onslaught  from  the  weather  side, 
A  withering  rush  of  death,  a  frost  that  cried, 
Shrieked,  till  he  withered  at  the  heart ;   a  hail 
Plastered  his  oilskins  with  an  icy  mail. 

"Cut! "yelled    his    mate.     He    looked  —  the    sail    was 

gone, 

Blown  into  rags  in  the  first  furious  squall ; 
The  tatters  drummed  the  devil's  tattoo.     On 
The  buckling  yard  a  block  thumped  like  a  mall. 
The  ship  lay  —  the  sea  smote  her,  the  wind's  bawl 
Came,  "loo,  loo,  loo!"     The  devil  cried  his  hounds 
On  to  the  poor  spent  stag  strayed  in  his  bounds. 

"Cut!     Ease  her!"  yelled  his  mate;    the  Dauber  heard. 
His  mate  wormed  up  the  tilted  yard  and  slashed, 
A  rag  of  canvas  skimmed  like  a  darting  bird. 


96  SEA  PICTURES 

The  snow  whirled,  the  ship  bowed  to  it,  the  gear  lashed, 
The  sea-tops  were  cut  off  and  flung  down  smashed ; 
Tatters  of  shouts  were  flung,  the  rags  of  yells  — 
And  clang,  clang,  clang,  below  beat  the  two  bells. 

"0  God  !"  the  Dauber  moaned.     A  roaring  rang, 
Blasting  the  royals  like  a  cannonade; 
The  backstays  parted  with  a  cracking  clang, 
The  upper  spars  were  snapped  like  twigs  decayed  — 
Snapped  at  their  heels,  their  jagged  splinters  splayed, 
Like  white  and  ghastly  hair  erect  with  fear. 
The  Mate  yelled,  "Gone,  by  God,  and   pitched    them 
clear!" 

"Up  !"  yelled  the  Bosun ;  "up  and  clear  the  wreck !" 

The  Dauber  followed  where  he  led  :  below 

He  caught  one  giddy  glimpsing  of  the  deck 

Filled  with  white  water,  as  though  heaped  with  snow. 

He  saw  the  streamers  of  the  rigging  blow 

Straight  out  like  pennons  from  the  splintered  mast, 

Then,  all  sense  dimmed,  all  was  an  icy  blast 

Roaring  from  nether  hell  and  filled  with  ice, 
Roaring  and  crashing  on  the  jerking  stage, 
An  utter  bridle  given  to  utter  vice, 
Limitless  power  mad  with  endless  rage 
Withering  the  soul ;   a  minute  seemed  an  age. 
He  clutched  and  hacked  at  ropes,  at  rags  of  sail, 
Thinking  that  comfort  was  a  fairy-tale 


SEA  PICTURES  97 

Told  long  ago  —  long,  long  ago  —  long  since 
Heard  of  in  other  lives  —  imagined,  dreamed  — 
There  where  the  basest  beggar  was  a  prince 
To  him  in  torment  where  the  tempest  screamed, 
Comfort  and  warmth  and  ease  no  longer  seemed 
Things  that  a  man  could  know :  soul,  body,  brain, 
Knew  nothing  but  the  wind,  the  cold,  the  pain. 

"Leave  that!"  the  Bosun  shouted;  "Crojick  save!" 

The  splitting  crojick,  not  yet  gone  to  rags, 

Thundered  below,  beating  till  something  gave, 

Bellying  between  its  buntlines  into  bags. 

Some    birds    were    blown    past,    shrieking:     dark,    like 

shags, 
Their  backs  seemed,   looking  down.     "Leu,   leu!"   they 

cried. 
The  ship  lay,  the  seas  thumped  her ;  she  had  died. 

They  reached  the  crojick  yard,  which  buckled,  buckled 
Like  a  thin  whalebone  to  the  topsail's  strain. 
They  laid  upon  the  yard  and  heaved  and  knuckled, 
Pounding  the  sail,  which  jangled  and  leapt  again. 
It  was  quite  hard  with  ice,  its  rope  like  chain, 
Its  strength  like  seven  devils ;  it  shook  the  mast. 
They  cursed  and  toiled  and  froze :  a  long  time  passed. 

Two  hours  passed,  then  a  dim  lightening  came. 
Those  frozen  ones  upon  the  yard  could  see 
The  mainsail  and  the  foresail  still  the  same, 


98  SEA  PICTURES 

Still  battling  with  the  hands  and  blowing  free, 
Rags  tattered  where  the  staysails  used  to  be. 
The  lower  topsails  stood ;   the  ship's  lee  deck 
Seethed  with  four  feet  of  water  filled  with  wreck. 

An  hour  more  went  by ;  the  Dauber  lost 
All  sense  of  hands  and  feet,  all  sense  of  all 
But  of  a  wind  that  cut  him  to  the  ghost, 
And  of  a  frozen  fold  he  had  to  haul, 
Of  heavens  that  fell  and  never  ceased  to  fall, 
And  ran  in  smoky  snatches  along  the  sea, 
Leaping  from  crest  to  wave-crest,  yelling.     He 

Lost  sense  of  time ;  no  bells  went,  but  he  felt 

Ages  go  over  him.     At  last,  at  last 

They  frapped  the  cringled  crojick's  icy  pelt; 

In  frozen  bulge  and  bunt  they  made  it  fast. 

Then,  scarcely  live,  they  laid  in  to  the  mast. 

The  Captain's  speaking  trumpet  gave  a  blare, 

"Make  fast  the  topsail,  Mister,  while  you're  there." 

Some  seamen  cursed,  but  up  they  had  to  go  — 

Up  to  the  topsail  yard  to  spend  an  hour 

Stowing  a  topsail  in  a  blinding  snow, 

Which  made  the  strongest  man  among  them  cower. 

More  men  came  up,  the  fresh  hands  gave  them  power, 

They  stowed  the  sail ;  then  with  a  rattle  of  chain 

One  half  the  crojick  burst  its  bonds  again. 


He  struck  a  ringbolt  in  his  haste  and  fell  — 

Rose,  sick  with  pain,  half-lamed  in  his  left  knee ; 

He  reached  the  shrouds  where  clambering  men  pell-mell 

Hustled  each  other  up  and  cursed  him  ;   he 

Hurried  aloft  with  them  :  then  from  the  sea 

Came  a  cold,  sudden  breath  that  made  the  hair 

Stiff  on  the  neck,  as  though  Death  whispered  there. 


SEA  PICTURES  99 

They  stowed  the  sail,  frapping  it  round  with  rope, 

Leaving  no  surface  for  the  wind,  no  fold, 

Then    down     the    weather    shrouds,    half    dead,    they 

grope ; 

That  struggle  with  the  sail  had  made  them  old. 
They  wondered  if  the  crojick  furl  would  hold. 
"Lucky,"  said  one,  "it  didn't  spring  the  spar." 
"Lucky!"  the  Bosun  said,  "Lucky!    We  are! 

She  came  within  two  shakes  of  turning  top 
Or  stripping  all  her  shroud-screws,  that  first  quiff. 
Now  fish  those  wash-deck  buckets  out  of  the  slop. 
Here's  Dauber  says  he  doesn't  like  Cape  Stiff. 
This  isn't  wind,  man,  this  is  only  a  whiff. 
Hold  on,  all  hands,  hold  on!"  a  sea,  half  seen, 
Paused,    mounted,     burst,     and    filled     the    main-deck 
green. 

The  Dauber  felt  a  mountain  of  water  fall. 
It  covered  him  deep,  deep,  he  felt  it  fill, 
Over  his  head,  the  deck,  the  fife-rails,  all, 
Quieting  the  ship,  she  trembled  and  lay  still. 
Then  with  a  rush  and  shatter  and  clanging  shrill 
Over  she  went ;  he  saw  the  water  cream 
Over  the  bitts ;  he  saw  the  half-deck  stream. 

Then  in  the  rush  he  swirled,  over  she  went ; 
Her  lee-rail  dipped,  he  struck,  and  something  gave ; 
His  legs  went  through  a  port  as  the  roll  spent ; 
She  paused,  then  rolled,  and  back  the  water  drave. 


ioo  SEA  PICTURES 

He  drifted  with  it  as  a  part  of  the  wave, 
Drowning,  half-stunned,  exhausted,  partly  frozen, 
He  struck  the  booby  hatchway ;  then  the  Bosun. 

Leaped,  seeing  his  chance,  before  the  next  sea  burst, 

And  caught  him  as  he  drifted,  seized  him,  held, 

Up-ended  him  against  the  bitts,  and  cursed. 

"This  ain't  the  George's  Swimming  Baths,"  he  yelled; 

"Keep  on  your  feet!"     Another  grey-back  felled 

The  two  together,  and  the  Bose,  half-blind, 

Spat:   "One's  a  joke,"  he  cursed,  "but  two's  unkind." 

"Now,  damn  it,  Dauber !"  said  the  Mate.     "Look  out, 
Or  you'll  be  over  the  side  !"     The  water  freed  ; 
Each  clanging  freeing-port  became  a  spout. 
The  men  cleared  up  the  decks  as  there  was  need. 
The  Dauber's  head  was  cut,  he  felt  it  bleed 
Into  his  oilskins  as  he  clutched  and  coiled. 
Water  and  sky  were  devils'  brews  which  boiled, 

Boiled,  shrieked,  and  glowered ;   but  the  ship  was  saved. 

Snugged  safely  down,  though  fourteen  sails  were  split. 

Out  of  the  dark  a  fiercer  fury  raved. 

The  grey-backs  died  and  mounted,  each  crest  lit 

With  a  white  toppling  gleam  that  hissed  from  it 

And  slid,  or  leaped,  or  ran  with  whirls  of  cloud, 

Mad  with  inhuman  life  that  shrieked  aloud. 

The  watch  was  called ;   Dauber  might  go  below. 
"Splice  the  main  brace !"  the  Mate  called.    All  laid  aft 


SEA  PICTURES  101 

To  get  a  gulp  of  momentary  glow 

As  some  reward  for  having  saved  the  craft. 

The  steward  ladled  mugs,  from  which  each  quaff'd 

Whisky,  with  water,  sugar,  and  lime-juice,  hot, 

A  quarter  of  a  pint  each  made  the  tot. 

Beside  the  lamp-room  door  the  steward  stood 
Ladling  it  out,  and  each  man  came  in  turn, 
Tipped  his  sou '-wester,  drank  it,  grunted  "Good!" 
And  shambled  forward,  letting  it  slowly  burn  : 
When  all  were  gone  the  Dauber  lagged  astern, 
Torn  by  his  frozen  body's  lust  for  heat, 
The  liquor's  pleasant  smell,  so  warm,  so  sweet, 

And  by  a  promise  long  since  made  at  home 

Never  to  taste  strong  liquor.     Now  he  knew 

The  worth  of  liquor ;   now  he  wanted  some. 

His  frozen  body  urged  him  to  the  brew ; 

Yet  it  seemed  wrong,  an  evil  thing  to  do 

To  break  that  promise.     "Dauber,"  said  the  Mate, 

"Drink,  and  turn  in,  man;   why  the  hell  d'ye  wait?" 

"Please,  sir,  I'm  temperance."    "Temperance  are  you,  hey? 

That's  all  the  more  for  me !     So  you're  for  slops  ? 

I  thought  you'd  had  enough  slops  for  to-day. 

Go  to  your  bunk  and  ease  her  when  she  drops. 

And  —  damme,  steward  !  you  brew  with  too  much  hops  ! 

Stir  up  the  sugar,  man  !  —  and  tell  your  girl 

How  kind  the  Mate  was  teaching  you  to  furl." 


102  SEA  PICTURES 

Then  the  Mate  drank  the  remnants,  six  men's  share 
And  ramped  into  his  cabin,  where  he  stripped 
And  danced  unclad,  and  was  uproarious  there. 
In  waltzes  with  the  cabin  cat  he  tripped, 
Singing  in  tenor  clear  that  he  was  pipped  — 
That  "  he  who  strove  the  tempest  to  disarm, 
Must  never  first  embrail  the  lee  yard-arm," 

And  that  his  name  was  Ginger.     Dauber  crept 
Back  to  the  round-house,  gripping  by  the  rail. 
The  wind  howled  by ;  the  passionate  water  leapt ; 
The  night  was  all  one  roaring  with  the  gale. 
Then  at  the  door  he  stopped,  uttering  a  wail ; 
His  hands  were  perished  numb  and  blue  as  veins, 
He  could  not  turn  the  knob  for  both  the  Spains. 

A  hand  came  shuffling  aft,  dodging  the  seas, 
Singing  "her  nut-brown  hair"  between  his  teeth; 
Taking  the  ocean's  tumult  at  his  ease 
Even  when  the  wash  about  his  thighs  did  seethe. 
His  soul  was  happy  in  its  happy  sheath  ; 
"What,  Dauber,  won't  it  open  ?     Fingers  cold  ? 
You'll  talk  of  this  time,  Dauber,  when  you're  old." 

He  flung  the  door  half  open,  and  a  sea 
Washed  them  both  in,  over  the  splash-board,  down ; 
"You  silly,  salt  miscarriage!"  sputtered  he. 
"Dauber,  pull  out  the  plug  before  we  drown! 
That's  spoiled  my  laces  and  my  velvet  gown. 


SEA  PICTURES  103 

Where  is  the  plug  ?"     Groping  in  pitch  dark  water, 
He  sang  between  his  teeth  "The  Farmer's  Daughter." 

It  was  pitch  dark  within  there ;   at  each  roll 

The  chests  slid  to  the  slant ;   the  water  rushed, 

Making  full  many  a  clanging  tin  pan  bowl 

Into  the  black  below-bunks  as  it  gushed. 

The  dog-tired  men  slept  through  it ;  they  were  hushed. 

The  water  drained,  and  then  with  matches  damp 

The  man  struck  heads  off  till  he  lit  the  lamp. 

"Thank  you,"  the  Dauber  said;   the  seaman  grinned. 

"This  is  your  first  foul  weather?"     "Yes."     "I  thought 

Up  on  the  yard  you  hadn't  seen  much  wind. 

Them's  rotten  sea-boots,  Dauber,  that  you  brought. 

Now  I  must  cut  on  deck  before  I'm  caught." 

He  went ;  the  lamp-flame  smoked  ;  he  slammed  the  door ; 

A  film  of  water  loitered  across  the  floor. 

The  Dauber  watched  it  come  and  watched  it  go ; 

He  had  had  revelation  of  the  lies 

Cloaking  the  truth  men  never  choose  to  know ; 

He  could  bear  witness  now  and  cleanse  their  eyes. 

He  had  beheld  in  suffering ;   he  was  wise ; 

This  was  the  sea,  this  searcher  of  the  soul  — 

This  never-dying  shriek  fresh  from  the  Pole. 

He  shook  with  cold ;  his  hands  could  not  undo 
His  oilskin  buttons,  so  he  shook  and  sat, 


104  SEA  PICTURES 

Watching  his  dirty  fingers,  dirty  blue, 
Hearing  without  the  hammering  tackle  slat, 
Within,  the  drops  from  dripping  clothes  went  pat. 
Running  in  little  patters,  gentle,  sweet, 
And  "Ai,  ai !"  went  the  wind,  and  the  seas  beat. 

His  bunk  was  sopping  wet ;  he  clambered  in. 
None  of  his  clothes  were  dry ;  his  fear  recurred. 
Cramps  bunched  the  muscles  underneath  his  skin, 
The  great  ship  rolled  until  the  lamp  was  blurred. 
He  took  his  Bible  and  tried  to  read  a  word ; 
Trembled  at  going  aloft  again,  and  then 
Resolved  to  fight  it  out  and  show  it  to  men. 

Faces  recurred,  fierce  memories  of  the  yard, 
The  frozen  sail,  the  savage  eyes,  the  jests, 
The  oaths  of  one  great  seaman,  syphilis-scarred, 
The  tug  of  leeches  jammed  beneath  their  chests, 
The  buntlines  bellying  bunts  out  into  breasts. 
The  deck  so  desolate-grey,  the  sky  so  wild, 
He  fell  asleep,  and  slept  like  a  young  child. 

But  not  for  long ;  the  cold  awoke  him  soon, 
The  hot-ache  and  the  skin-cracks  and  the  cramp, 
The  seas  thundering  without,  the  gale's  wild  tune, 
The  sopping  misery  of  the  blankets  damp. 
A  speaking-trumpet  roared  ;  a  sea-boot's  stamp 
Clogged  at  the  door.     A  man  entered  to  shout : 
"All  hands  on  deck  !     Arouse  here  !     Tumble  out !': 


SEA  PICTURES  105 

The  caller  raised  the  lamp ;  his  oilskins  clicked 

As  the  thin  ice  upon  them  cracked  and  fell. 

"Rouse  out!"  he  said.     "This  lamp  is  frozen  wick'd. 

Rouse  out!"     His  accent  deepened  to  a  yell. 

"We're  among  ice;  it's  blowing  up  like  hell. 

We're  going  to  hand  both  topsails.     Time,  I  guess, 

We're  sheeted  up.     Rouse  out!     Don't  stay  to  dress!" 

"Is  it  cold  on  deck  ?"  said  Dauber.     "Is  it  cold  ? 
We're  sheeted  up,  I  tell  you,  inches  thick ! 
The  fo'c'sle's  like  a  wedding-cake,  I'm  told. 
Now  tumble  out,  my  sons ;  on  deck  here,  quick ! 
Rouse  out,  away,  and  come  and  climb  the  stick. 
I'm  going  to  call  the  half-deck.     Bosun  !     Hey ! 
Both  topsails  coming  in.     Heave  out!     Away!" 

He  went ;  the  Dauber  tumbled  from  his  bunk, 
Clutching  the  side.     He  heard  the  wind  go  past, 
Making  the  great  ship  wallow  as  if  drunk. 
There  was  a  shocking  tumult  up  the  mast. 
"This  is  the  end,"  he  muttered,  "come  at  last! 
I've  got  to  go  aloft,  facing  this  cold. 
I  can't.     I  can't.     I'll  never  keep  my  hold. 

"I  cannot  face  the  topsail  yard  again. 

I  never  guessed  what  misery  it  would  be." 

The  cramps  and  hot-ache  made  him  sick  with  pain 

The  ship  stopped  suddenly  from  a  devilish  sea, 

Then,  with  a  triumph  of  wash,  a  rush  of  glee, 


io6  SEA  PICTURES 

The  door  burst  in,  and  in  the  water  rolled, 
Filling  the  lower  bunks,  black,  creaming,  cold. 

The  lamp  sucked  out.     "Wash  !"  went  the  water  back, 

Then  in  again,  flooding ;  the  Bosun  swore. 

"You  useless  thing!     You  Dauber!     You  lee  slack! 

Get  out,  you  heekapoota  !     Shut  the  door ! 

You  coo-ilyaira,  what  are  you  waiting  for  ? 

Out  of  my  way,  you  thing  —  you  useless  thing !" 

He  slammed  the  door  indignant,  clanging  the  ring. 

And  then  he  lit  the  lamp,  drowned  to  the  waist ; 

"Here's  a  fine  house !     Get  at  the  scupper-holes"  — 

He  bent  against  it  as  the  water  raced  — 

"And  pull  them  out  to  leeward  when  she  rolls. 

They  say  some  kinds  of  landsmen  don't  have  souls. 

I  well  believe.     A  Port  Mahon  baboon 

Would  make  more  soul  than  you  got  with  a  spoon." 

Down  in  the  icy  water  Dauber  groped 
To  find  the  plug ;   the  racing  water  sluiced 
Over  his  head  and  shoulders  as  she  sloped. 
Without,  judged  by  the  sound,  all  hell  was  loosed. 
He  felt  cold  Death  about  him  tightly  noosed. 
That  Death  was  better  than  the  misery  there 
Iced  on  the  quaking  foothold  high  in  air. 

And  then  the  thought  came  :   "  I'm  a  failure.     All 
My  life  has  been  a  failure.     They  were  right. 


SEA  PICTURES  107 

It  will  not  matter  if  I  go  and  fall ; 
I  should  be  free  then  from  this  hell's  delight. 1 
I'll  never  paint.     Best  let  it  end  to-night. 
I'll  slip  over  the  side.     I've  tried  and  failed." 
So  in  the  ice-cold  in  the  night  he  quailed. 

Death  would  be  better,  death,  than  this  long  hell 

Of  mockery  and  surrender  and  dismay  — 

This  long  defeat  of  doing  nothing  well, 

Playing  the  part  too  high  for  him  to  play. 

"O  Death !  who  hides  the  sorry  thing  away, 

Take  me ;   I've  failed.     I  cannot  play  these  cards." 

There  came  a  thundering  from  the  topsail  yards. 

And  then  he  bit  his  lips,  clenching  his  mind, 

And  staggered  out  to  muster,  beating  back 

The  coward  frozen  self  of  him  that  whined. 

Come  what  cards  might  he  meant  to  play  the  pack. 

"Ai!"  screamed  the  wind;   the  topsail  sheet  went  clack; 

Ice  filled  the  air  with  spikes ;  the  greybacks  burst. 

"Here's  Dauber,"  said  the  Mate,  "on  deck  the  first. 

"Why,  holy  sailor,  Dauber,  you're  a  man! 

I  took  you  for  a  soldier.     Up  now,  come!" 

Up  on  the  yards  already  they  began 

That  battle  with  a  gale  which  strikes  men  dumb. 

The  leaping  topsail  thundered  like  a  drum. 

The  frozen  snow  beat  in  the  face  like  shots. 

The  wind  spun  whipping  wave-crests  into  clots. 


108  SEA  PICTURES 

So  up  upon  the  topsail  yard  again, 

In  the  great  tempest's  fiercest  hour,  began 

Probation  to  the  Dauber's  soul,  of  pain 

Which  crowds  a  century's  torment  in  a  span. 

For  the  next  month  the  ocean  taught  this  man, 

And  he,  in  that  month's  torment,  while  she  wested. 

Was  never  warm  nor  dry,  nor  full  nor  rested. 

But  still  it  blew,  or,  if  it  lulled,  it  rose 

Within  the  hour  and  blew  again ;   and  still 

The  water  as  it  burst  aboard  her  froze. 

The  wind  blew  off  an  ice-field,  raw  and  chill, 

Daunting  man's  body,  tampering  with  his  will ; 

But  after  thirty  days  a  ghostly  sun 

Gave  sickly  promise  that  the  storms  were  done. 


The  Captain  eyed  her  aft,  sucking  his  lip, 
Feeling  the  sail  too  much,  but  yet  refraining 
From  putting  hobbles  on  the  leaping  ship, 
The  glad  sea-shattering  stallion,  halter-straining, 
Wing-musical,  uproarious,  and  complaining; 
But,  in  a  gust,  he  cocked  his  finger,  so : 
"You'd  better  take  them  off,  before  they  go." 

All  saw.     They  ran  at  once  without  the  word 
"Lee-ay!     Lee-ay!"     Loud  rang  the  clewline  cries ; 
Sam  in  his  bunk  within  the  half-deck  heard, 
Stirred  in  his  sleep,  and  rubbed  his  drowsy  eyes. 


SEA  PICTURES  109 

"There  go  the  lower  to  'gallants."     Against  the  skies 
Rose  the  thin  bellying  strips  of  leaping  sail. 
The  Dauber  was  the  first  man  over  the  rail. 

Three  to  a  mast  they  ran ;  it  was  a  race. 

"God  !"  said  the  Mate;   "that  Dauber,  he  can  go." 

He  watched  the  runners  with  an  upturned  face 

Over  the  futtocks,  struggling  heel  to  toe, 

Up  to  the  topmast  cross-trees  into  the  blow 

Where  the  three  sails  were  leaping.     "Dauber  wins !" 

The  yards  were  reached,  and  now  the  race  begins. 

Which  three  will  furl  their  sail  first  and  come  down  ? 

Out  to  the  yard-arm  for  the  leech  goes  one, 

His  hair  blown  flagwise  from  a  hatless  crown, 

His  hands  at  work  like  fever  to  be  done. 

Out  of  the  gale  a  fiercer  fury  spun. 

The  three  sails  leaped  together,  yanking  high, 

Like  talons  darting  up  to  clutch  the  sky. 

The  Dauber  on  the  fore-topgallant  yard 

Out  at  the  weather  yard-arm  was  the  first 

To  lay  his  hand  upon  the  buntline-barred 

Topgallant  yanking  to  the  wester's  burst ; 

He  craned  to  catch  the  leech ;  his  comrades  cursed ; 

One  at  the  buntlines,  one  with  oaths  observed, 

"The  eye  of  the  outer  jib-stay  isn't  served." 

"No,"  said  the  Dauber.     "No,"  the  man  replied. 
They  heaved,  stowing  the  sail,  not  looking  round, 


no  SEA  PICTURES 

Panting,  but  full  of  life  and  eager-eyed ; 
The  gale  roared  at  them  with  its  iron  sound. 
"That's  you,"  the  Dauber  said.     His  gasket  wound 
Swift  round  the  yard,  binding  the  sail  in  bands ; 
There  came  a  gust,  the  sail  leaped  from  his  hands, 

50  that  he  saw  it  high  above  him,  grey, 

And  there  his  mate  was  falling ;  quick  he  clutched 

An  arm  in  oilskins  swiftly  snatched  away. 

A  voice  said  "Christ!"  a  quick  shape  stooped  and  touched, 

Chain  struck  his  hands,  ropes  shot,  the  sky  was  smutched 

With  vast  black  fires  that  ran,  that  fell,  that  furled, 

And  then  he  saw  the  mast,  the  small  snow  hurled, 

The  fore-topgallant  yard  far,  far  aloft, 
And  blackness  settling  on  him  and  great  pain ; 
And  snow  beneath  his  fingers  wet  and  soft, 
And  topsail  sheet-blocks  shaking  at  the  chain. 
He  knew  it  was  he  who  had  fallen ;   then  his  brain 
Swirled  in  a  circle  while  he  watched  the  sky. 
Infinite  multitudes  of  snow  blew  by. 

"I  thought  it  was  Tom  who  fell,"  his  brain's  voice  said. 
"Down  on  the  bloody  deck!"  the  Captain  screamed. 
The  multitudinous  little  snow-flakes  sped. 
His  pain  was  real  enough,  but  all  else  seemed. 

51  with  a  bucket  ran,  the  water  gleamed 
Tilting  upon  him ;  others  came,  the  Mate  .  .  . 
They  knelt  with  eager  eyes  like  things  that  wait 


SEA  PICTURES  ill 

For  other  things  to  come.     He  saw  them  there. 
"It  will  go  on,"  he  murmured,  watching  Si. 
Colours  and  sounds  seemed  mixing  in  the  air, 
The  pain  was  stunning  him,  and  the  wind  went  by. 
"More  water,"  said  the  Mate.     "Here,  Bosun,  try. 
Ask  if  he's  got  a  message.     Hell,  he's  gone ! 
Here,  Dauber,  paints."     He  said,  "It  will  go  on." 

Not  knowing  his  meaning  rightly,  but  he  spoke 

With  the  intenseness  of  a  fading  soul 

Whose  share  of  Nature's  fire  turns  to  smoke, 

Whose  hand  on  Nature's  wheel  loses  control. 

The  eager  faces  glowered  red  like  coal. 

They   glowed,    the   great   storm   glowed,  the    sails,   the 

mast. 
"It  will  go  on,"  he  cried  aloud,  and  passed. 

Those  from  the  yard  came  down  to  tell  the  tale. 
"He  almost  had  me  off,"  said  Tom.     "He  slipped. 
There  came  one  hell  of  a  jump-like  from  the  sail.  .  .  . 
He  clutched  at  me  and  almost  had  me  pipped. 
He  caught  my  'ris'band,  but  the  oilskin  ripped.  .  .  . 
It  tore  clean  off.     Look  here.     I  was  near  gone. 
I  made  a  grab  to  catch  him ;  so  did  John. 

"I  caught  his  arm.     My  God  !     I  was  near  done. 
He  almost  had  me  over ;  it  was  near. 
He  hit  the  ropes  and  grabbed  at  every  one." 
"Well,"  said  the  Mate,  "we  cannot  leave  him  here. 


112  SEA  PICTURES 

Run,  Si,  and  get  the  half-deck  table  clear. 

We'll  lay  him  there.     Catch  hold  there,  you,  and  you, 

He's  dead,  poor  son ;  there's  nothing  more  to  do." 

Night  fell,  and  all  night  long  the  Dauber  lay 

Covered  upon  the  table ;   all  night  long 

The  pitiless  storm  exulted  at  her  prey, 

Huddling  the  waters  with  her  icy  thong. 

But  to  the  covered  shape  she  did  no  wrong. 

He  lay  beneath  the  sailcloth.     Bell  by  bell 

The  night  wore  through ;  the  stars  rose,  the  stars  fell. 

Blowing  most  pitiless  cold  out  of  clear  sky 

The  wind  roared  all  night  long ;   and  all  night  through 

The  green  seas  on  the  deck  went  washing  by, 

Flooding  the  half-deck ;  bitter  hard  it  blew. 

But  little  of  it  all  the  Dauber  knew  — 

The  sopping  bunks,  the  floating  chests,  the  wet, 

The  darkness,  and  the  misery,  and  the  sweat. 

He  was  off  duty.     So  it  blew  all  night, 

And  when  the  watches  changed  the  men  would  come 

Dripping  within  the  door  to  strike  a  light 

And  stare  upon  the  Dauber  lying  dumb, 

And  say,  "He  come  a  cruel  thump,  poor  chum." 

Or,  "He'd  a-been  a  fine  big  man;"  or,  "He  .  .  . 

A  smart  young  seaman  he  was  getting  to  be." 

Or,  "Damn  it  all,  it's  what  we've  all  to  face!  .  . 
I  knew  another  fellow  one  time  ..."  then 


SEA  PICTURES  113 

Came  a  strange  tale  of  death  in  a  strange  place 
Out  on  the  sea,  in  ships,  with  wandering  men. 
In  many  ways  Death  puts  us  into  pen. 
The  reefers  came  down  tired  and  looked  and  slept. 
Below  the  skylight  little  dribbles  crept 

Along  the  painted  woodwork,  glistening,  slow, 

Following  the  roll  and  dripping,  never  fast, 

But  dripping  on  the  quiet  form  below, 

Like  passing  time  talking  to  time  long  past. 

And  all  night  long  "Ai,  ai !"  went  the  wind's  blast, 

And  creaming  water  swished  below  the  pale, 

Unheeding  body  stretched  beneath  the  sail. 

At  dawn  they  sewed  him  up,  and  at  eight  bells 

They  bore  him  to  the  gangway,  wading  deep, 

Through  the  green-clutching,  white-toothed  water-hells 

That  flung  his  carriers  over  in  their  sweep. 

They  laid  an  old  red  ensign  on  the  heap, 

And  all  hands  stood  bare-headed,  stooping,  swaying, 

Washed  by  the  sea  while  the  old  man  was  praying 

Out  of  a  borrowed  prayer-book.     At  a  sign 

They  twitched  the  ensign  back  and  tipped  the  grating. 

A  creamier  bubbling  broke  the  bubbling  brine. 

The  muffled  figure  tilted  to  the  weighting; 

It  dwindled  slowly  down,  slowly  gyrating. 

Some  craned  to  see ;  it  dimmed,  it  disappeared ; 

The  last  green  milky  bubble  blinked  and  cleared. 


H4  SEA  PICTURES 

"Mister,  shake  out  your  reefs,"  the  Captain  called. 
"Out  topsail  reefs  !"  the  Mate  cried  ;  then  all  hands 
Hurried,  the  great  sails  shook,  and  all  hands  hauled, 
Singing  that  desolate  song  of  lonely  lands, 
Of  how  a  lover  came  in  dripping  bands, 
Green  with  the  wet  and  cold,  to  tell  his  lover 
That  Death  was  in  the  sea,  and  all  was  over. 

Fair  came  the  falling  wind ;   a  seaman  said 

The  Dauber  was  a  Jonah ;  once  again 

The  clipper  held  her  course,  showing  red  lead, 

Shattering  the  sea-tops  into  golden  rain. 

The  waves  bowed  down  before  her  like  blown  grain ; 

Onwards  she  thundered,  on ;  her  voyage  was  short, 

Before  the  tier's  bells  rang  her  into  port. 

Cheerly  they  rang  her  in,  those  beating  bells, 
The  new-come  beauty  stately  from  the  sea, 
Whitening  the  blue  heave  of  the  drowsy  swells, 
Treading  the  bubbles  down.     With  three  times  three 
They  cheered  her  moving  beauty  in,  and  she 
Came  to  her  berth  so  noble,  so  superb ; 
Swayed  like  a  queen,  and  answered  to  the  curb. 

Then  in  the  sunset's  flush  they  went  aloft, 
And  unbent  sails  in  that  most  lovely  hour, 
When  the  light  gentles  and  the  wind  is  soft, 
And  beauty  in  the  heart  breaks  like  a  flower. 
Working  aloft  they  saw  the  mountain  tower, 


They  heard  the  launch-men  shout, 
And  bright  along  the  bay  the  lights  came  out. 


SEA  PICTURES  115 

Snow  to  the  peak ;  they  heard  the  launchmen  shout ; 
And  bright  along  the  bay  the  lights  came  out. 

And  then  the  night  fell  dark,  and  all  night  long 

The  pointed  mountain  pointed  at  the  stars, 

Frozen,  alert,  austere;   the  eagle's  song 

Screamed  from  her  desolate  screes  and  splintered  scars. 

On  her  intense  crags  where  the  air  is  sparse 

The  stars  looked  down ;  their  many  golden  eyes 

Watched  her  and  burned,  burned  out,  and  came  to  rise. 

Silent  the  finger  of  the  summit  stood, 

Icy  in  pure,  thin  air,  glittering  with  snows. 

Then  the  sun's  coming  turned  the  peak  to  blood, 

And  in  the  rest-house  the  muleteers  arose. 

And  all  day  long,  where  only  the  eagle  goes, 

Stones,  loosened  by  the  sun,  fall ;  the  stones  falling 

Fill  empty  gorge  on  gorge  with  echoes  calling. 


FROM  BIOGRAPHY 

DAYS  of  endeavour  have  been  good  :  the  days 
Racing  in  cutters  or  the  comrade's  praise, 
The  day  they  led  my  cutter  at  the  turn 
Yet  could  not  keep  the  lead  and  dropped  astern, 
The  moment  in  the  spurt  when  both  boats'  oars 
Dipped  in  each  other's  wash  and  throats  grew  hoarse 
And   teeth   ground   into  teeth  and   both  strokes  quick- 
ened 

Lashing  the  sea,  and  gasps  came,  and  hearts  sickened 
And  coxswains  damned  us,  dancing,  banking  stroke, 
To  put  our  weights  on,  though  our  hearts  were  broke 
And  both  boats  seemed  to  stick  and  sea  seemed  glue, 
The  tide  a  mill  race  we  were  struggling  through 
And  every  quick  recover  gave  us  squints 
Of  them  still  there,  and  oar  tossed  waterglints 
And  cheering  came,  our  friends,  our  foemen  cheering, 
A  long,  wild,  rallying  murmur  on  the  hearing  — 
"Port  Fore!"    and    "Starboard    Fore!"    "Port    Fore." 

"Port  Fore." 

"Up  with  her,  Starboard,"  and  at  that  each  oar 
Lightened,  though  arms  were  bursting,  and  eyes  shut 
And  the  oak  stretchers  grunted  in  the  strut 
And  the  curse  quickened  from  the  cox,  our  bows 

116 


Lashing  the  sea,  and  gasps  came,  and  hearts  sickened 
And  coxswains  damned  us,  dancing,  banking  stroke, 
To  put  our  weights  on,  though  our  hearts  were  broke 
And  both  boats  seemed  to  stick  and  sea  seemed  glue, 
The  tide  a  mill  race  we  were  struggling  through. 


ii8  SEA  PICTURES 

Crashed,  and  drove  talking  water,  we  made  vows, 
Chastity  vows  and  temperance ;  in  our  pain 
We  numbered  things  we'd  never  eat  again 
If  we  could  only  win  ;   then  came  the  yell 
"Starboard,"  "Port  Fore,"  and  then  a  beaten  bell 
Rung  as  for  fire  to  cheer  us.     "Now."     Oars  bent, 
Soul  took  the  looms  now  body's  bolt  was  spent, 
"Damn  it,  come  on  now,"  "On  now,"  "On  now,"  "Star- 
board." 

"Port  Fore."     "Up  with  her,  Port";    each  cutter  har- 
boured 

Ten  eye-shut  painsick  strugglers,  "Heave,  oh,  heave," 
Catcalls  waked  echoes  like  a  shrieking  sheave. 
"Heave,"  and  I  saw  a  back,  then  two.     "Port  Fore." 
"Starboard."     "Come  on."     I  saw  the  midship  oar 
And  knew  we  had  done  them.     "Port  Fore." 
"Starboard."     "Now." 
I  saw  bright  water  spurting  at  their  bow 
Their  cox'  full  face  an  instant.     They  were  done. 
The  watchers'  cheering  almost  drowned  the  gun. 
We  had  hardly  strength  to  toss  our  oars ;  our  cry 
Cheering  the  losing  cutter  was  a  sigh. 


SALT-WATER  POEMS 


THE  SHIP  AND  HER  MAKERS 
THE  ORE 

BEFORE  Man's  labouring  wisdom  gave  me  birth 
I  had  not  even  seen  the  light  of  day ; 
Down  in  the  central  darkness  of  the  earth, 
Crushed  by  the  weight  of  continents  I  lay, 
Ground  by  the  weight  to  heat,  not  knowing  then 
The  Air,  the  light,  the  noise,  the  world  of  men. 

THE  TREES 

We  grew  on  mountains  where  the  glaciers  cry, 

Infinite  sombre  armies  of  us  stood 

Below  the  snow-peaks  which  defy  the  sky; 

A  song  like  the  gods  moaning  filled  our  wood ; 

We  knew  no  men  —  our  life  was  to  stand  staunch. 

Singing  our  song,  against  the  avalanche. 

THE  HEMP  AND  FLAX 

We  were  a  million  grasses  on  the  hill, 
A  million  herbs  which  bowed  as  the  wind  blew, 
Trembling  in  every  fibre,  never  still ; 
Out  of  the  summer  earth  sweet  life  we  drew. 
Little  blue-flowered  grasses  up  the  glen, 
Glad  of  the  sun,  what  did  we  know  of  men  ? 
121 


122  SALT-WATER  POEMS 

THE  WORKERS 

We  tore  the  iron  from  the  mountain's  hold, 

By  blasting  fires  we  smithied  it  to  steel ; 

Out  of  the  shapeless  stone  we  learned  to  mould 

The  sweeping  bow,  the  rectilinear  keel ; 

We  hewed  the  pine  to  plank,  we  split  the  fir, 

We  pulled  the  myriad  flax  to  fashion  her. 

Out  of  a  million  lives  our  knowledge  came, 
A  million  subtle  craftsmen  forged  the  means ; 
Steam  was  our  handmaid  and  our  servant  flame. 
Water  our  strength,  all  bowed  to  our  machines. 
Out  of  the  rock,  the  tree,  the  springing  herb 
We  built  this  wandering  beauty  so  superb. 

THE  SAILORS 

We,  who  were  born  on  earth  and  live  by  air, 
Make  this  thing  pass  across  the  fatal  floor, 
The  speechless  sea ;   alone  we  commune  there 
Jesting  with  death,  that  ever  open  door. 
Sun,  moon  and  stars  are  signs  by  which  we  drive 
This  wind-blown  iron  like  a  thing  alive. 

THE  SHIP 

I  march  across  great  waters  like  a  queen, 
I  whom  so  many  wisdoms  helped  to  make ; 
Over  the  uncruddled  billows  of  seas  green 
I  blanch  the  bubbled  highway  of  my  wake. 
By  me  my  wandering  tenants  clasp  the  hands, 
And  know  the  thoughts  of  men  in  other  lands. 


THE  NEW  BEDFORD  WHALER 

THERE  was  a  'Bedford  Whaler  put  out  to  hunt  for  oil, 
With  a  try-works  in  amidships  where  chunks  of  whale 

could  boil, 
And  a  fo'c's'le,  wet  and  frowsy,  where  whalers'  crews 

could  gam, 
And  her  captain  came  from  'Bedford  and  did  not  give  a 

cent, 
So  over  the  bar  from  'Bedford  to  hunt  the  whale  she  went. 

But  never  a  whale  she  sighted  for  eight  and  forty  moons, 
She  never  lowered  her  boats  in  chase  nor  reddened  her 

harpoons, 
So  home  she  went  to  'Bedford,  where  her  owners  came  to 

ask, 
"How  many  tons  of  whalebone,  cap,  and  how  much  oil 

in  cask?" 

The  captain  turned  his  tobacco  inside  his  weather  cheek, 
And  he  said  "At  least  the  Bible  says,  blessed  are  they  who 

seek. 
We've  been  at  sea  four  years  and  more  and  never  seen  a 

whale, 
We  haven't  a  lick  of  oil  on  board  but  we've  had  a  darned 

good  sail." 

123 


CARGOES 

QUINQUIREME  of  Nineveh  from  distant  Ophir, 

Rowing  home  to  haven  in  sunny  Palestine, 

With  a  cargo  of  ivory, 

And  apes  and  peacocks, 

Sandalwood,  cedarwood,  and  sweet  white  wine. 

Stately  Spanish  galleon  coming  from  the  Isthmus, 

Dipping  through  the  Tropics  by  the  palmgreen  shores, 

With  a  cargo  of  diamonds, 

Emeralds,  amethysts, 

Topazes,  and  cinnamon,  and  gold  moidores. 

Dirty  British  coaster  with  a  salt-caked  smoke  stack, 

Butting  through  the  Channel  in  the  mad  March  days, 

With  a  cargo  of  Tyne  coal, 

Road-rails,  pig-lead, 

Firewood,  iron-ware,  and  cheap  tin  trays. 


124 


CAPTAIN  STRATTON'S  FANCY 

OH  some  are  fond  of  red  wine,  and  some  are  fond  of 

white, 

And  some  are  all  for  dancing  by  the  pale  moonlight ; 
But  rum  alone's  the  tipple,  and  the  heart's  delight 
Of  the  old  bold  mate  of  Henry  Morgan. 

Oh  some  are  fond  of  Spanish  wine,  and  some  are  fond  of 

French, 

And  some'll  swallow  tay  and  stuff  fit  only  for  a  wench ; 
But  I'm  for  right  Jamaica  till  I  roll  beneath  the  bench, 
Says  the  old  bold  mate  of  Henry  Morgan. 

Oh  some  are  for  the  lily,  and  some  are  for  the  rose, 
But  I  am  for  the  sugar-cane  that  in  Jamaica  grows ; 
For  it's  that  that  makes  the  bonny  drink  to  warm  my 

copper  nose, 
Says  the  old  bold  mate  of  Henry  Morgan. 

Oh  some  are  fond  of  fiddles,  and  a  song  well  sung, 
And  some  are  all  for  music  for  to  lilt  upon  the  tongue ; 
But  mouths  were  made  for  tankards,  and  for  sucking  at 

the  bung, 

Says  the  old  bold  mate  of  Henry  Morgan. 

125 


126  SALT-WATER  POEMS 

Oh  some  are  fond  of  dancing,  and  some  are  fond  of  dice, 
And  some  are  all  for  red  lips,  and  pretty  lasses'  eyes ; 
But  a  right  Jamaica  puncheon  is  a  finer  prize 
To  the  old  bold  mate  of  Henry  Morgan. 

Oh  some  that's  good  and  godly  ones  they  hold  that  it's  a 

sin 

To  troll  the  jolly  bowl  around,  and  let  the  dollars  spin ; 
But  I'm  for  toleration  and  for  drinking  at  an  inn, 
Says  the  old  bold  mate  of  Henry  Morgan. 

Oh  some  are  sad  and  wretched  folk  that  go  in  silken  suits, 
And  there's  a  mort  of  wicked  rogues  that  live  in  good 

reputes ; 

So  I'm  for  drinking  honestly,  and  dying  in  my  boots, 
Like  an  old  bold  mate  of  Henry  Morgan. 


THIRD  MATE 

ALL  the  sheets  are  clacking,  all  the  blocks  are  whining, 
The  sails  are  frozen  stiff  and  the  wetted  decks  are  shining ; 
The  reef's  in  the  topsails,  and  it's  coming  on  to  blow, 
And  I  think  of  the  dear  girl  I  left  long  ago. 

Grey  were  her  eyes,  and  her  hair  was  long  and  bonny, 
Golden  was  her  hair,  like  the  wild  bees'  honey. 
And  I  was  but  a  dog,  and  a  mad  one  to  despise, 
The  gold  of  her  hair  and  the  grey  of  her  eyes. 

There's  the  sea  before  me,  and  my  home's  behind  me, 
And  beyond  there  the  strange  lands  where  nobody  will 

mind  me, 

No  one  but  the  girls  with  the  paint  upon  their  cheeks, 
Who  sell  away  their  beauty  to  whomsoever  seeks. 

There'll  be  drink  and  women  there,  and  songs  and  laughter, 
Peace  from  what  is  past  and  from  all  that  follows  after; 
And  a  fellow  will  forget  how  a  woman  lies  awake, 
Lonely  in  the  night  watch  crying  for  his  sake. 

Black  it  blows  and  bad  and  it  howls  like  slaughter, 
And  the  ship  she  shudders  as  she  takes  the  water. 
Hissing  flies  the  spindrift  like  a  wind-blown  smoke, 
And  I  think  of  a  woman  and  a  heart  I  broke. 

127 


POSTED  AS  MISSING 

UNDER  all  her  topsails  she  trembled  like  a  stag, 

The  wind  made  a  ripple  in  her  bonny  red  flag ; 

They  cheered  her  from  the  shore  and  they  cheered  her 

from  the  pier, 
And  under  all  her  topsails  she  trembled  like  a  deer. 

So  she  passed  swaying,  where  the  green  seas  run, 
Her  wind-steadied  topsails  were  stately  in  the  sun ; 
There  was  glitter  on  the  water  from  her  red  port  light, 
So  she  passed  swaying,  till  she  was  out  of  sight. 

Long  and  long  ago  it  was,  a  weary  time  it  is, 
The  bones  of  her  sailor-men  are  coral  plants  by  this ; 
Coral  plants,  and  shark-weed,  and  a  mermaid's  comb, 
And  if  the  fishers  net  them  they  never  bring  them  home. 

It's  rough  on  sailors'  women.     They  have  to  mangle  hard, 
And  stitch  at  dungarees  till  their  finger-ends  are  scarred, 
Thinking  of  the  sailor-men  who  sang  among  the  crowd, 
Hoisting  of  her  topsails  when  she  sailed  so  proud. 


128 


SHIPS 

I  CANNOT  tell  their  wonder  nor  make  known 
Magic  that  once  thrilled  through  me  to  the  bone, 
But  all  men  praise  some  beauty,  tell  some  tale, 
Vent  a  high  mood  which  makes  the  rest  seem  pale, 
Pour  their  heart's  blood  to  flourish  one  green  leaf, 
Follow  some  Helen  for  her  gift  of  grief, 
And  fail  in  what  they  mean,  whate'er  they  do : 
You  should  have  seen,  man  cannot  tell  to  you 
The  beauty  of  the  ships  of  that  my  city. 

That  beauty  now  is  spoiled  by  the  sea's  pity ; 
For  one  may  haunt  the  pier  a  score  of  times, 
Hearing  St.  Nicholas  bells  ring  out  the  chimes, 
Yet  never  see  those  proud  ones  swaying  home 
With  mainyards  backed  and  bows  a  cream  of  foam, 
Those  bows  so  lovely-curving,  cut  so  fine, 
Those  coulters  of  the  many-bubbled  brine, 
As  once,  long  since,  when  all  the  docks  were  filled 
With  that  sea-beauty  man  has  ceased  to  build 

Yet,  though  their  splendour  may  have  ceased  to  be, 
Each  played  her  sovereign  part  in  making  me ; 
Now  I  return  my  thanks  with  heart  and  lips 
For  the  great  queenliness  of  all  those  ships. 
K  129 


130  SALT-WATER  POEMS 

And  first  the  first  bright  memory,  still  so  clear, 
An  autumn  evening  in  a  golden  year, 
When  in  the  last  lit  moments  before  dark 
The  Chepica,  a  steel-grey  lovely  barque. 
Came  to  an  anchor  near  us  on  the  flood, 
Her  trucks  aloft  in  sun-glow  red  as  blood. 

Then  come  so  many  ships  that  I  could  fill 

Three  docks  with  their  fair  hulls  remembered  still, 

Each  with  her  special  memory's  special  grace, 

Riding  the  sea,  making  the  waves  give  place 

To  delicate  high  beauty ;   man's  best  strength, 

Noble  in  every  line  in  all  their  length. 

Ails  a,  Genista,  ships,  with  long  jibbooms, 

The  Wanderer  with  great  beauty  and  strange  dooms, 

Liverpool  (mightiest  then)  superb,  sublime, 

The  California  huge,  as  slow  as  time. 

The  Copley  swift,  the  perfect  /.  T.  North, 

The  loveliest  barque  my  city  has  sent  forth, 

Dainty  John  Lockett  well  remembered  yet, 

The  splendid  Argus  with  her  skysail  set, 

Stalwart  Drumcliff,  white-blocked,  majestic  Sierras, 

Divine  bright  ships,  the  water's  standard-bearers  • 

Melpomene,  Euphrosyne,  and  their  sweet 

Sea-troubling  sisters  of  the  Fernie  fleet ; 

Corunna  (in  whom  my  friend  died)  and  the  old 

Long  since  loved  Esmeralda  long  since  sold. 

Centurion  passed  in  Rio,  Glaucus  spoken, 

Aladdin  burnt,  the  Bidston  water-broken, 


Came  to  an  anchor  near  us  on  the  flood, 
Her  trucks  aloft  in  sun-glow  red  as  blood. 


SHIPS  131 

• 

Yola,  in  whom  my  friend  sailed,  Dawpool  trim, 
Fierce-bowed  Egeria  plunging  to  the  swim, 
Stanmore  wide-sterned,  sweet  Cupica,  tall  Sard, 
Queen  in  all  harbours  with  her  moon  sail  yard. 

Though  I  tell  many,  there  must  still  be  others, 
McVickar  Marshall's  ships  and  Fernie  Brothers', 
Lochs,  Counties,  Shires,  Drums,  the  countless  lines 
Whose  house-flags  all  were  once  familiar  signs 
At  high  main-trucks  on  Mersey's  windy  ways 
When  sunlight  made  the  wind-white  water  blaze. 
Their  names  bring  back  old  mornings,  when  the  docks 
Shone  with  their  house-flags  and  their  painted  blocks, 
Their  raking  masts  below  the  Custom  House 
And  all  the  marvellous  beauty  of  their  bows. 

Familiar  steamers,  too,  majestic  steamers, 

Shearing  Atlantic  roller-tops  to  streamers, 

Umbria,  Etruria,  noble,  still  at  sea, 

The  grandest,  then,  that  man  had  brought  to  be. 

Majestic,  City  of  Paris,  City  of  Rome, 

Forever  jealous  racers,  out  and  home. 

The  Alfred  Holt's  blue  smoke-stacks  down  the  stream, 

The  fair  Loanda  with  her  bows  a-cream. 

Booth  liners,  Anchor  liners,  Red  Star  liners, 

The  marks  and  styles  of  countless  ship-designers, 

The  Magdalena,  Puno,  Potosi, 

Lost  Cotopaxi,  all  well  known  to  me. 


132  SALT-WATER  POEMS 

These  splendid  ships,  each  with  her  grace,  her  glory, 

Her  memory  of  old  song  or  comrade's  story, 

Still  in  my  mind  the  image  of  life's  need, 

Beauty  in  hardest  action,  beauty  indeed. 

"They  built  great  ships  and  sailed  them"  sounds  most 

brave 

Whatever  arts  we  have  or  fail  to  have ; 
I  touch  my  country's  mind,  I  come  to  grips 
With  half  her  purpose,  thinking  of  these  ships, 
That  art  untouched  by  softness,  all  that  line 
Drawn  ringing  hard  to  stand  the  test  of  brine, 
That  nobleness  and  grandeur,  all  that  beauty 
Born  of  a  manly  life  and  bitter  duty, 
That  splendour  of  fine  bows  which  yet  could  stand 
The  shock  of  rollers  never  checked  by  land. 
That  art  of  masts,  sail  crowded,  fit  to  break, 
Yet  stayed  to  strength  and  backstayed  into  rake, 
The  life  demanded  by  that  art,  the  keen 
Eye-puckered,  hard-case  seamen,  silent,  lean,  — 
They  are  grander  things  than  all  the  art  of  towns, 
Their  tests  are  tempests  and  the  sea  that  drowns, 
They  are  my  country's  line,  her  great  art  done 
By  strong  brains  labouring  on  the  thought  unwon, 
They  mark  our  passage  as  a  race  of  men, 
Earth  will  not  see  such  ships  as  those  again. 


ROADWAYS 

ONE  road  leads  to  London, 
One  road  runs  to  Wales, 

My  road  leads  me  seawards 
To  the  white  dipping  sails. 

One  road  leads  to  the    river, 
As  it  goes  singing  slow ; 

My  road  leads  to  shipping, 
Where  the  bronzed  sailors  go. 

Leads  me,  lures  me,  calls  me 
To  salt  green  tossing  sea ; 

A  road  without  earth's  road-dust 
Is  the  right  road  for  me. 

A  wet  road  heaving,  shining, 
And  wild  with  seagulls'  cries, 

A  mad  salt  sea-wind  blowing 
The  salt  spray  in  my  eyes. 

My  road  calls  me,  lures  me 
West,  east,  south,  and  north ; 
133 


134  SALT-WATER  POEMS 

Most  roads  lead  men  homewards, 
My  road  leads  me  forth 

To  add  more  miles  to  the  tally 
Of  grey  miles  left  behind, 

In  quest  of  that  one  beauty 
God  put  me  here  to  find. 


THE  "WANDERER" 

ALL  day  they  loitered  by  the  resting  ships, 
Telling  their  beauties  over,  taking  stock; 
At  night  the  verdict  left  my  messmates'  lips, 
"The  Wanderer  is  the  finest  ship  in  dock." 

I  had  not  seen  her,  but  a  friend,  since  drowned, 
Drew  her,  with  painted  ports,  low,  lovely,  lean, 
Saying,  "The  Wanderer,  clipper,  outward  bound, 
The  loveliest  ship  my  eyes  have  ever  seen  — 

"Perhaps  to-morrow  you  will  see  her  sail. 

She  sails  at  sunrise"  :   but  the  morrow  showed 

No  Wanderer  setting  forth  for  me  to  hail ; 

Far  down  the  stream  men  pointed  where  she  rode. 

Rode  the  great  trackway  to  the  sea,  dim,  dim, 
Already  gone  before  the  stars  were  gone. 
I  saw  her  at  the  sea-line's  smoky  rim 
Grow  swiftly  vaguer  as  they  towed  her  on. 

Soon  even  her  masts  were  hidden  in  the  haze 
Beyond  the  city ;   she  was  on  her  course 
To  trample  billows  for  a  hundred  days ; 
That  afternoon  the  norther  gathered  force, 


136  SALT-WATER  POEMS 

Blowing  a  small  snow  from  a  point  of  east. 
"Oh,  fair  for  her,"  we  said,  "to  take  her  south." 
And  in  our  spirits,  as  the  wind  increased, 
We  saw  her  there,  beyond  the  river  mouth, 

Setting  her  side-lights  in  the  wildering  dark, 
To  glint  upon  mad  water,  while  the  gale 
Roared  like  a  battle,  snapping  like  a  shark, 
And  drunken  seamen  struggled  with  the  sail. 

While  with  sick  hearts  her  mates  put  out  of  mind 
Their  little  children  left  astern,  ashore, 
And  the  gale's  gathering  made  the  darkness  blind, 
Water  and  air  one  intermingled  roar. 

Then  we  forgot  her,  for  the  fiddlers  played, 
Dancing  and  singing  held  our  merry  crew ; 
The  old  ship  moaned  a  little  as  she  swayed. 
It  blew  all  night,  oh,  bitter  hard  it  blew ! 

So  that  at  midnight  I  was  called  on  deck 
To  keep  an  anchor-watch :   I  heard  the  sea 
Roar  past  in  white  procession  filled  with  wreck ; 
Intense  bright  frosty  stars  burned  over  me, 

And  the  Greek  brig  beside  us  dipped  and  dipped, 
White  to  the  muzzle  like  a  half-tide  rock, 
Drowned  to  the  mainmast  with  the  seas  she  shipped ; 
Her  cable-swivels  clanged  at  every  shock. 


THE  "WANDERER"  137 

And  like  a  never-dying  force,  the  wind 
Roared  till  we  shouted  with  it,  roared  until 
Its  vast  vitality  of  wrath  was  thinned, 
Had  beat  its  fury  breathless  and  was  still. 

By  dawn  the  gale  had  dwindled  into  flaw, 
A  glorious  morning  followed  :  with  my  friend 
I  climbed  the  fo'c's'le-head  to  see ;  we  saw 
The  waters  hurrying  shorewards  without  end. 

Haze  blotted  out  the  river's  lowest  reach ; 
Out  of  the  gloom  the  steamers,  passing  by, 
Called  with  their  sirens,  hooting  their  sea-speech ; 
Out  of  the  dimness  others  made  reply. 

And  as  we  watched,  there  came  a  rush  of  feet 
Charging  the  fo'c's'le  till  the  hatchway  shook. 
Men  all  about  us  thrust  their  way,  or  beat, 
Crying,  "  The  Wanderer  !    Down  the  river !     Look ! " 

I  looked  with  them  towards  the  dimness ;  there 
Gleamed  like  a  spirit  striding  out  of  night, 
A  full-rigged  ship  unutterably  fair, 
Her  masts  like  trees  in  winter,  frosty-bright. 

Foam  trembled  at  her  bows  like  wisps  of  wool  ; 
She  trembled  as  she  towed.     I  had  not  dreamed 
That  work  of  man  could  be  so  beautiful, 
In  its  own  presence  and  in  what  it  seemed. 


138  SALT-WATER  POEMS 

"So,  she  is  putting  back  again,"  I  said. 
"How  white  with  frost  her  yards  are  on  the  fore." 
One  of  the  men  about  me  answer  made, 
"That  is  not  frost,  but  all  her  sails  are  tore, 

"Torn  into  tatters,  youngster,  in  the  gale; 
Her  best  foul-weather  suit  gone."     It  was  true, 
Her  masts  were  white  with  rags  of  tattered  sail 
Many  as  gannets  when  the  fish  are  due. 

Beauty  in  desolation  was  her  pride, 
Her  crowned  array  a  glory  that  had  been ; 
She  faltered  tow'rds  us  like  a  swan  that  died, 
But  although  ruined  she  was  still  a  queen. 

"Put  back  with  all  her  sails  gone,"  went  the  word; 
Then,  from  her  signals  flying,  rumour  ran, 
"The  sea  that  stove  her  boats  in  killed  her  third; 
She  has  been  gutted  and  has  lost  a  man." 

So,  as  though  stepping  to  a  funeral  march, 
She  passed  defeated  homewards  whence  she  came, 
Ragged  with  tattered  canvas  white  as  starch, 
A  wild  bird  that  misfortune  had  made  tame. 

She  was  refitted  soon :  another  took 
The  dead  man's  office ;  then  the  singers  hove 
Her  capstan  till  the  snapping  hawsers  shook; 
Out,  with  a  bubble  at  her  bows,  she  drove. 


"Put  back  with  all  her  sails  gone,"  went  the  word. 


THE  "WANDERER"  139 

Again  they  towed  her  seawards,  and  again 

We,  watching,  praised  her  beauty,  praised  her  trim, 

Saw  her  fair  house-flag  flutter  at  the  main, 

And  slowly  saunter  seawards,  dwindling  dim ; 

And  wished  her  well,  and  wondered,  as  she  died, 
How,  when  her  canvas  had  been  sheeted  home, 
Her  quivering  length  would  sweep  into  her  stride, 
Making  the  greenness  milky  with  her  foam. 

But  when  we  rose  next  morning,  we  discerned 
Her  beauty  once  again  a  shattered  thing; 
Towing  to  dock  the  Wanderer  returned, 
A  wounded  sea-bird  with  a  broken  wing. 

A  spar  was  gone,  her  rigging's  disarray 
Told  of  a  worse  disaster  than  the  last ; 
Like  draggled  hair  dishevelled  hung  the  stay, 
Drooping  and  beating  on  the  broken  mast. 

Half-mast  upon  her  flagstaff  hung  her  flag ; 
Word  went  among  us  how  the  broken  spar 
Had  gored  her  captain  like  an  angry  stag, 
And  killed  her  mate  a  half-day  from  the  bar. 

She  passed  to  dock  upon  the  top  of  flood. 
An  old  man  near  me  shook  his  head  and  swore : 
"Like  a  bad  woman,  she  has  tasted  blood  — 
There'll  be  no  trusting  in  her  any  more." 


I4o  SALT-WATER  POEMS 

We  thought  it  truth,  and  when  we  saw  her  there 
Lying  in  dock,  beyond,  across  the  stream, 
We  would  forget  that  we  had  called  her  fair, 
We  thought  her  murderess  and  the  past  a  dream. 

And  when  she  sailed  again,  we  watched  in  awe, 
Wondering  what  bloody  act  her  beauty  planned, 
What  evil  lurked  behind  the  thing  we  saw, 
What  strength  was  there  that  thus  annulled  man's  hand, 

How  next  its  triumph  would  compel  man's  will 
Into  compliance  with  external  Fate, 
How  next  the  powers  would  use  her  to  work  ill 
On  suffering  men ;  we  had  not  long  to  wait. 

For  soon  the  outcry  of  derision  rose, 
"Here  comes  the  Wanderer  !"  the  expected  cry. 
Guessing  the  cause,  our  mockings  joined  with  those 
Yelled  from  the  shipping  as  they  towed  her  by. 

She  passed  us  close,  her  seamen  paid  no  heed 
To  what  was  called  :  they  stood,  a  sullen  group, 
Smoking  and  spitting,  careless  of  her  need, 
Mocking  the  orders  given  from  the  poop. 

Her  mates  and  boys  were  working  her ;  we  stared. 
What  was  the  reason  of  this  strange  return, 
This  third  annulling  of  the  thing  prepared  ? 
No  outward  evil  could  our  eyes  discern. 


THE  "WANDERER"  141 

Only  like  one  who  having  formed  a  plan 
Beyond  the  pitch  of  common  minds,  she  sailed, 
Mocked  and  deserted  by  the  common  man, 
Made  half  divine  to  me  for  having  failed. 

We  learned  the  reason  soon ;  below  the  town 

A  stay  had  parted  like  a  snapping  reed, 

"Warning,"  the  men  thought,  "not  to  take  her  down." 

They  took  the  omen,  they  would  not  proceed. 

Days  passed  before  another  crew  would  sign. 
The  Wanderer  lay  in  dock  alone,  unmanned, 
Feared  as  a  thing  possessed  by  powers  malign, 
Bound  under  curses  not  to  leave  the  land. 

But  under  passing  Time  fear  passes  too ; 
That  terror  passed,  the  sailors'  hearts  grew  bold. 
We  learned  in  time  that  she  had  found  a  crew 
And  was  bound  out  and  southwards  as  of  old. 

And  in  contempt  we  thought,  "A  little  while 
Will  bring  her  back  again,  dismantled,  spoiled. 
It  is  herself ;  she  cannot  change  her  style ; 
She  has  the  habit  now  of  being  foiled." 

So  when  a  ship  appeared  among  the  haze, 
We  thought,  "  The  Wanderer  back  again " ;  but  no, 
No  Wanderer  showed  for  many,  many  days, 
Her  passing  lights  made  other  waters  glow. 


142  SALT-WATER  POEMS 

But  we  would  often  think  and  talk  of  her, 
Tell  newer  hands  her  story,  wondering,  then, 
Upon  what  ocean  she  was  Wanderer, 
Bound  to  the  cities  built  by  foreign  men. 

And  one  by  one  our  little  conclave  thinned, 
Passed  into  ships  and  sailed  and  so  away, 
To  drown  in  some  great  roaring  of  the  wind, 
Wanderers  themselves,  unhappy  fortune's  prey. 

And  Time  went  by  me  making  memory  dim, 
Yet  still  I  wondered  if  the  Wanderer  fared 
Still  pointing  to  the  unreached  ocean's  rim, 
Brightening  the  water  where  her  breast  was  bared. 

And  much  in  ports  abroad  I  eyed  the  ships, 
Hoping  to  see  her  well-remembered  form 
Come  with  a  curl  of  bubbles  at  her  lips 
Bright  to  her  berth,  the  sovereign  of  the  storm. 

I  never  did,  and  many  years  went  by, 
Then,  near  a  Southern  port,  one  Christmas  Eve, 
I  watched  a  gale  go  roaring  through  the  sky, 
Making  the  caldrons  of  the  clouds  upheave. 

Then  the  wrack  tattered  and  the  stars  appeared, 
Millions  of  stars  that  seemed  to  speak  in  fire ; 
A  byre  cock  cried  aloud  that  morning  neared, 
The  swinging  wind-vane  flashed  upon  the  spire. 


THE   "WANDERER"  143 

And  soon  men  looked  upon  a  glittering  earth, 
Intensely  sparkling  like  a  world  new-born ; 
Only  to  look  was  spiritual"  birth, 
So  bright  the  raindrops  ran  along  the  thorn. 

So  bright  they  were,  that  one  could  almost  pass 
Beyond  their  twinkling  to  the  source,  and  know 
The  glory  pushing  in  the  blade  of  grass, 
That  hidden  soul  which  makes  the  flowers  grow. 

That  soul  was  there  apparent,  not  revealed, 
Unearthly  meanings  covered  every  tree, 
That  wet  grass  grew  in  an  immortal  field, 
Those  waters  fed  some  never-wrinkled  sea. 

The  scarlet  berries  in  the  hedge  stood  out 
Like  revelations  but  the  tongue  unknown ; 
Even  in  the  brooks  a  joy  was  quick :   the  trout 
Rushed  in  a  dumbness  dumb  to  me  alone. 

All  of  the  valley  was  aloud  with  brooks ; 
I  walked  the  morning,  breasting  up  the  fells, 
Taking  again  lost  childhood  from  the  rooks, 
Whose  cawing  came  above  the  Christmas  bells. 

I  had  not  walked  that  glittering  world  before, 
But  up  the  hill  a  prompting  came  to  me, 
"This  line  of  upland  runs  along  the  shore: 
Beyond  the  hedgerow  I  shall  see  the  sea." 


144  SALT-WATER  POEMS 

And  on  the  instant  from  beyond  away 

That  long  familiar  sound,  a  ship's  bell,  broke 

The  hush  below  me  in  the  unseen  bay. 

Old  memories  came :  that  inner  prompting  spoke. 

And  bright  above  the  hedge  a  seagull's  wings 
Flashed  and  were  steady  upon  empty  air. 
"A  Power  unseen,"  I  cried,  "prepares  these  things; 
Those  are  her  bells,  the  Wanderer  is  there." 

So,  hurrying  to  the  hedge  and  looking  down, 
I  saw  a  mighty  bay's  wind-crinkled  blue 
Ruffling  the  image  of  a  tranquil  town, 
With  lapsing  waters  glittering  as  they  grew. 

And  near  me  in  the  road  the  shipping  swung, 
So  stately  and  so  still  in  such  great  peace 
That  like  to  drooping  crests  their  colours  hung, 
Only  their  shadows  trembled  without  cease. 

I  did  but  glance  upon  those  anchored  ships. 
Even  as  my  thought  had  told,  I  saw  her  plain ; 
Tense,  like  a  supple  athlete  with  lean  hips, 
Swiftness  at  pause,  the  Wanderer  come  again  — 

Come  as  of  old  a  queen,  untouched  by  Time, 
Resting  the  beauty  that  no  seas  could  tire, 
Sparkling,  as  though  the  midnight's  rain  were  rime, 
Like  a  man's  thought  transfigured  into  fire. 


THE  "WANDERER"  145 

And  as  I  looked,  one  of  her  men  began 
To  sing  some  simple  tune  of  Christmas  day ; 
Among  her  crew  the  song  spread,  man  to  man, 
Until  the  singing  rang  across  the  bay ; 

And  soon  in  other  anchored  ships  the  men 
Joined  in  the  singing  with  clear  throats,  until 
The  farm-boy  heard  it  up  the  windy  glen, 
Above  the  noise  of  sheep-bells  on  the  hill. 

Over  the  water  came  the  lifted  song  — 
Blind  pieces  in  a  mighty  game  we  swing ; 
Life's  battle  is  a  conquest  for  the  strong ; 
The  meaning  shows  in  the  defeated  thing. 


THE  RIVER 

ALL  other  waters  have  their  time  of  peace, 
Calm,  or  the  turn  of  tide  or  summer  drought; 
But  on  these  bars  the  tumults  never  cease, 
In  violent  death  this  river  passes  out. 

Brimming  she  goes,  a  bloody-coloured  rush 
Hurrying  her  heaped  disorder,  rank  on  rank, 
Bubbleless  speed  so  still  that  in  the  hush 
One  hears  the  mined  earth  dropping  from  the  bank 

Slipping  in  little  falls  whose  tingeings  drown, 
Sunk  by  the  waves  for  ever  pressing  on. 
Till  with  a  stripping  crash  the  tree  goes  down, 
Its  washing  branches  flounder  and  are  gone. 

Then,  roaring  out  aloud,  her  water  spreads, 
Making  a  desolation  where  her  waves 
Shriek  and  give  battle,  tossing  up  their  heads, 
Tearing  the  shifting  sandbanks  into  graves, 

Changing  the  raddled  ruin  of  her  course 
So  swiftly,  that  the  pilgrim  on  the  shore 
Hears  the  loud  whirlpool  laughing  like  a  horse 
Where  the  scurfed  sand  was  parched  an  hour  before. 

146 


THE   RIVER  147 

And  always  underneath  that  heaving  tide 
The  changing  bottom  runs,  or  piles,  or  quakes, 
Flinging  immense  heaps  up  to  wallow  wide, 
Sucking  the  surface  into  whirls  like  snakes. 

If  anything  should  touch  that  shifting  sand. 
All  the  blind  bottom  sucks  it  till  it  sinks ; 
It  takes  the  clipper  ere  she  comes  to  land, 
It  takes  the  thirsting  tiger  as  he  drinks. 

And  on  the  river  pours  —  it  never  tires ; 
Blind,  hungry,  screaming,  day  and  night  the  same 
Purposeless  hurry  of  a  million  ires, 
Mad  as  the  wind,  as  merciless  as  flame. 


There  was  a  full-rigged  ship,  the  Travancort, 
Towing  to  port  against  that  river's  rage  — 
A  glittering  ship  made  sparkling  for  the  shore, 
Taut  to  the  pins  in  all  her  equipage. 

Clanging,  she  topped  the  tide ;   her  sails  were  furled, 
Her  men  came  loitering  downwards  from  the  yards ; 
They  who  had  brought  her  half  across  the  world, 
Trampling  so  many  billows  into  shards, 

Now  looking  up,  beheld  their  duty  done, 
The  ship  approaching  port,  the  great  masts  bare, 
Gaunt  as  three  giants  striding  in  the  sun, 
Proud,  with  the  colours  tailing  out  like  hair. 


148  SALT-WATER  POEMS 

So,  having  coiled  their  gear,  they  left  the  deck ; 
Within  the  fo'c'sle's  gloom  of  banded  steel, 
Mottled  like  wood  with  many  a  painted  speck, 
They  brought  their  plates  and  sat  about  a  meal. 

Then  pushing  back  the  tins,  they  lit  their  pipes, 
Or  slept,  or  played  at  cards,  or  gently  spoke, 
Light  from  the  portholes  shot  in  dusty  stripes 
Tranquilly  moving,  sometimes  blue  with  smoke. 

These  sunbeams  sidled  when  the  vessel  rolled, 
Their  lazy  yellow  dust-strips  crossed  the  floor, 
Lighting  a  man-hole  leading  to  the  hold, 
A  man-hole  leaded  down  the  day  before. 

Like  gold  the  solder  on  the  man-hole  shone ; 
A  few  flies  threading  in  a  drowsy  dance 
Slept  in  their  pattern,  darted,  and  were  gone. 
The  river  roared  against  the  ship's  advance. 

And  quietly  sleep  came  upon  the  crew, 
Man  by  man  drooped  upon  his  arms  and  slept; 
Without,  the  tugboat  dragged  the  vessel  through, 
The  rigging  whined,  the  yelling  water  leapt, 

Till  blindly  a  careering  wave's  collapse 
Rose  from  beneath  her  bows  and  spouted  high 
Spirting  the  fo'c'sle  floor  with  noisy  slaps ; 
A  sleeper  at  the  table  heaved  a  sigh, 


THE   RIVER  149 

And  lurched,  half-drunk  with  sleep,  across  the  floor, 
Muttering  and  blinking  like  a  man  insane, 
Cursed  at  the  river's  tumult,  shut  the  door, 
Blinked,  and  lurched  back  and  fell  asleep  again. 

Then  there  was  greater  silence  in  the  room, 
Ship's  creakings  ran  along  the  beams  and  died, 
The  lazy  sunbeams  loitered  up  the  gloom, 
Stretching  and  touching  till  they  reached  the  side. 


Yet  something  jerking  in  the  vessel's  course 
Told  that  the  tug  was  getting  her  in  hand 
As,  at  a  fence,  one  steadies  down  a  horse, 
To  rush  the  whirlpool  on  Magellan  Sand ; 

And  in  the  uneasy  water  just  below 

Her  Mate  inquired  "if  the  men  should  stir 

And  come  on  deck?"     Her  Captain  answered  "No, 

Let  them  alone,  the  tug  can  manage  her." 

Then,  as  she  settled  down  and  gathered  speed, 
Her  Mate  inquired  again  "if  they  should  come 
Just  to  be  ready  there  in  case  of  need, 
Since,  on  such  godless  bars,  there  might  be  some." 

But  "No,"  the  Captain  said,  "the  men  have  been 
Boxing  about  since  midnight,  let  them  be. 
The  pilot's  able  and  the  ship's  a  queen, 
The  hands  can  rest  until  we  come  to  quay." 


ISO  SALT-WATER  POEMS 

They  ceased,  they  took  their  stations ;   right  ahead 
The  whirlpool  heaped  and  sucked ;  in  tenor  tone 
The  steady  leadsman  chanted  at  the  lead, 
The  ship  crept  forward  trembling  to  the  bone. 

And  just  above  the  worst  a  passing  wave 
Brought  to  the  line  such  unexpected  stress 
That  as  she  tossed  her  bows  her  towrope  gave, 
Snapped  at  the  collar  like  a  stalk  of  cress. 

Then,  for  a  ghastly  moment,  she  was  loose, 
Blind  in  the  whirlpool,  groping  for  a  guide, 
Swinging  adrift  without  a  moment's  truce, 
She  struck  the  sand  and  fell  upon  her  side. 

And  instantly  the  sand  beneath  her  gave 
So  that  she  righted  and  again  was  flung, 
Grinding  the  quicksand  open  for  a  grave, 
Straining  her  masts  until  the  steel  was  sprung. 

The  foremast  broke ;  its  mighty  bulk  of  steel 
Fell  on  the  fo'c'sle  door  and  jammed  it  tight; 
The  sand-rush  heaped  her  to  an  even  keel, 
She  settled  down,  resigned,  she  made  no  fight, 

But,  like  an  overladen  beast,  she  lay 
Dumb  in  the  mud  with  billows  at  her  lips, 
Broken,  where  she  had  fallen  in  the  way, 
Grinding  her  grave  among  the  bones  of  ships. 


THE   RIVER  151 

At  the  first  crashing  of  the  mast,  the  men 
Sprang  from  their  sleep  to  hurry  to  the  deck ; 
They  found  that  Fate  had  caught  them  in  a  pen, 
The  door  that  opened  out  was  jammed  with  wreck. 

Then,  as,  with  shoulders  down,  their  gathered  strength 
Hove  on  the  door,  but  could  not  make  it  stir, 
They  felt  the  vessel  tremble  through  her  length ; 
The  tug,  made  fast  again,  was  plucking  her. 

Plucking,  and  causing  motion,  till  it  seemed 
That  she  would  get  her  off ;   they  heard  her  screw 
Mumble  the  bubbled  rip-rap  as  she  steamed ; 
"Please  God,  the  tug  will  shift  her !"  said  the  crew. 

"She's  off!"  the  seamen  said;   they  felt  her  glide, 
Scraping  the  bottom  with  her  bilge,  until 
Something  collapsing  clanged  along  her  side ; 
The  scraping  stopped,  the  tugboat's  screw  was  still. 

"She's    holed!"    a    voice    without    cried;     "holed    and 

jammed  — 

Holed  on  the  old  Magellan,  sunk  last  June. 
I  lose  my  ticket  and  the  men  are  damned ; 
They'll  drown  like  rats  unless  we  free  them  soon. 

"My  God,  they  shall  not!"  and  the  speaker  beat 
Blows  with  a  crow  upon  the  foremast's  wreck ; 
Minute  steel  splinters  fell  about  his  feet, 
No  tremour  stirred  the  ruin  on  the  deck. 


152  SALT-WATER  POEMS 

And  as  their  natures  bade,  the  seamen  learned 
That  they  were  doomed  within  that  buried  door ; 
Some  cursed,  some  raved,  but  one  among  them  turned 
Straight  to  the  manhole  leaded  in  the  floor, 

And  sitting  down  astride  it,  drew  his  knife, 
And  staidly  dug  to  pick  away  the  lead, 
While  at  the  ports  his  fellows  cried  for  life : 
"Burst  in  the  door,  or  we  shall  all  be  dead !" 

For  like  a  brook  the  leak  below  them  clucked. 
They  felt  the  vessel  settling ;  they  could  feel 
How  the  blind  bog  beneath  her  gripped  and  sucked. 
Their  fingers  beat  their  prison  walls  of  steel. 

And  then  the  gurgling  stopped  —  the  ship  was  still. 
She  stayed  ;  she  sank  no  deeper  —  an  arrest 
Pothered  the  pouring  leak ;   she  ceased  to  fill. 
She  trod  the  mud,  drowned  only  to  the  breast. 

And  probing  at  the  well,  the  captain  found 
The  leak  no  longer  rising,  so  he  cried : 
"She  is  not  sinking  —  you  will  not  be  drowned ; 
The  shifting  sand  has  silted  up  her  side. 

"Now  there  is  time.     The  tug  shall  put  ashore 
And  fetch  explosives  to  us  from  the  town ; 
I'll  burst  the  house  or  blow  away  the  door 
(It  will  not  kill  you  if  you  all  lie  down). 


And  probing  at  the  well,  the  captain  found 
The  leak  no  longer  rising,  so  he  cried  : 
"She  is  not  sinking  —  you  will  not  be  drowned; 
The  shifting  sand  has  silted  up  her  side. 

"Now  there  is  time.     The  tug  shall  put  ashore 
And  fetch  explosives  to  us  from  the  town ; 
I'll  burst  the  house  or  blow  away  the  door 
(It  will  not  kill  you  if  you  all  lie  down)." 


THE  RIVER  153 

"Be  easy  in  your  minds,  for  you'll  be  free 

As  soon  as  we've  the  blast."     The  seamen  heard 

The  tug  go  townwards,  butting  at  the  sea ; 

Some  lit  their  pipes,  the  youngest  of  them  cheered. 

But  still  the  digger  bent  above  the  lid, 
Gouging  the  solder  from  it  as  at  first, 
Pecking  the  lead,  intent  on  what  he  did ; 
The  other  seamen  mocked  at  him  or  cursed. 

And  some  among  them  nudged  him  as  he  picked. 
He  cursed  them,  grinning,  but  resumed  his  game ; 
His  knife-point  sometimes  struck  the  lid  and  clicked. 
The  solder-pellets  shone  like  silver  flame. 

And  still  his  knife-blade  clicked  like  ticking  time 
Counting  the  hour  till  the  tug's  return, 
And  still  the  ship  stood  steady  on  the  slime, 
While  Fate  above  her  fingered  with  her  urn. 


Then  from  the  tug  beside  them  came  the  hail : 
"They  have  none  at  the  stores,  nor  at  the  dock, 
Nor  at  the  quarry,  so  I  tried  the  gaol. 
They  thought  they  had,  but  it  was  out  of  stock. 

"  So  then  I  telephoned  to  town ;   they  say 
They've  sent  an  engine  with  some  to  the  pier ; 
I  did  not  leave  till  it  was  on  its  way, 
A  tug  is  waiting  there  to  bring  it  here : 


154  SALT-WATER  POEMS 

"  It  can't  be  here,  though,  for  an  hour  or  more ; 
I've  lost  an  hour  in  trying,  as  it  is. 
For  want  of  thought  commend  me  to  the  shore. 
You'd  think  they'd  know  their  river's  ways  by  this.' 

"So  there  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  wait," 

The  Captain  answered,  fuming.     "Until  then, 

We'd  better  go  to  dinner,  Mr.  Mate." 

The  cook  brought  dinner  forward  to  the  men. 


Another  hour  of  prison  loitered  by ; 
The  strips  of  sunlight  stiffened  at  the  port, 
But  still  the  digger  made  the  pellets  fly, 
Paying  no  heed  to  his  companions'  sport, 

While  they,  about  him,  spooning  at  their  tins, 
Asked  if  he  dug  because  he  found  it  cold, 
Or  whether  it  was  penance  for  his  sins, 
Or  hope  of  treasure  in  the  forward  hold. 

He  grinned  and  cursed,  but  did  not  cease  to  pick, 
His  sweat  dropped  from  him  when  he  bent  his  head, 
His  knife-blade  quarried  down,  till  with  a  click 
Its  grinded  thinness  snapped  against  the  lead. 

Then,  dully  rising,  brushing  back  his  sweat, 

He  asked  his  fellows  for  another  knife. 

"Never,"  they  said;    "man,  what  d'ye  hope  to  get?" 

"Nothing,"  he  said,  "except  a  chance  for  life." 


THE  RIVER  155 

"Havers,"  they  said,  and  one  among  them  growled, 
"You'll  get  no  knife  from  any  here  to  break. 
You've  dug  the  manhole  since  the  door  was  fouled, 
And  now  your  knife's  broke,  quit,  for  Jesus'  sake." 

But  one,  who  smelt  a  bargain,  changed  his  tone. 
Offering  a  sheath-knife  for  the  task  in  hand 
At  twenty  times  its  value,  as  a  loan 
To  be  repaid  him  when  they  reached  the  land. 

And  there  was  jesting  at  the  lender's  greed 
And  mockery  at  the  digger's  want  of  sense, 
Closing  with  such  a  bargain  without  need, 
Since  in  an  hour  the  tug  would  take-  them  thence. 

But  "Right,"  the  digger  said.     The  deal  was  made 
He  took  the  borrowed  knife,  and  sitting  down 
Gourged  at  the  channelled  solder  with  the  blade, 
Saying,  "Let  be,  it's  better  dig  than  drown." 

And  nothing  happened  for  a  while ;   the  heat 
Grew  in  the  stuffy  room,  the  sunlight  slid, 
Flies  buzzed  about  and  jostled  at  the  meat, 
The  knife-blade  clicked  upon  the  manhole  lid : 

And  one  man  said,  "She  takes  a  hell  of  time 
Bringing  the  blaster,"  and  another  snored ; 
One,  between  pipe-puffs,  hummed  a  smutty  rhyme, 
One,  who  was  weaving,  thudded  with  his  sword. 


156  SALT-WATER  POEMS 

It  was  as  though  the  ship  were  in  a  dream, 
Caught  in  a  magic  ocean,  calm  like  death, 
Tranced,  till  a  presence  should  arise  and  gleam, 
Making  the  waters  conscious  with  her  breath. 

It  was  so  drowsy  that  the  river's  cries, 
Roaring  aloud  their  ever-changing  tune, 
Came  to  those  sailors  like  the  drone  of  flies, 
Filling  with  sleep  the  summer  afternoon. 

§o  that  they  slept,  or,  if  they  spoke,  it  was 
Only  to  worry  lest  the  tug  should  come : 
Such  power  upon  the  body  labour  has 
That  prison  seemed  a  blessed  rest  to  some, 

Till  one  man  leaning  at  the  port-hole,  stared, 
Checking  his  yawning  at  the  widest  stretch, 
Then  blinked  and  swallowed,  while  he  muttered,  scared, 
"That  blasting-cotton  takes  an  age  to  fetch." 

Then  swiftly  passing  from  the  port  he  went 
Up  and  then  down  the  fo'c'sle  till  he  stayed, 
Fixed  at  the  port-hole  with  his  eyes  intent, 
Round-eyed  and  white,  as  if  he  were  afraid, 

And  muttered  as  he  stared,  "My  God !  she  is. 
She's  deeper  than  she  was,  she's  settling  down. 
That  palm-tree  top  was  steady  against  this, 
And  now  I  see  the  quay  below  the  town. 


THE  RIVER  157 

"Look  here  at  her.     She's  sinking  in  her  tracks. 
She's  going  down  by  inches  as  she  stands ; 
The  water's  darker  and  it  stinks  like  flax, 
Her  going  down  is  churning  up  the  sands." 

And  instantly  a  panic  took  the  crew, 
Even  the  digger  blenched ;   his  knife-blade's  haste 
Cutting  the  solder  witnessed  that  he  knew 
Time  on  the  brink  with  not  a  breath  to  waste. 

While  far  away  the  tugboat  at  the  quay 
Under  her  drooping  pennon  waited  still 
For  that  explosive  which  would  set  them  free, 
Free,  with  the  world  a  servant  to  their  will. 

Then  from  a  boat  beside  them  came  a  blare, 
Urging  that  tugboat  to  be  quick ;   and  men 
Shouted  to  stir  her  from  her  waiting  there, 
"Hurry  the  blast,  and  get  us  out  of  pen. 

"She's  going  down.     She's  going  down,  man!     Quick!" 
The  tugboat  did  not  stir,  no  answer  came ; 
They  saw  her  tongue-like  pennon  idly  lick 
Clear  for  an  instant,  lettered  with  her  name. 

Then  droop  again.     The  engine  had  not  come, 
The  blast  had  not  arrived.     The  prisoned  hands 
Saw  her  still  waiting  though  their  time  had  come, 
Their  ship  was  going  down  among  the  sands, 


158  SALT-WATER  POEMS 

Going  so  swiftly  now,  that  they  could  see 
The  banks  arising  as  she  made  her  bed ; 
Full  of  sick  sound  she  settled  deathward,  she 
Gurgled  and  shook,  the  digger  picked  the  lead. 

And,  as  she  paused  to  take  a  final  plunge, 
Prone  like  a  half-tide  rock,  the  men  on  deck 
Jumped  to  their  boats  and  left,  ere  like  a  sponge 
The  river's  rotten  heart  absorbed  the  wreck ; 

And  on  the  perilous  instant  ere  Time  struck, 
The  digger's  work  was  done,  the  lead  was  cleared, 
He  cast  the  manhole  up ;  below  it  muck 
Floated,  the  hold  was  full,  the  water  leered. 

All  of  his  labour  had  but  made  a  hole 
By  which  to  leap  to  death ;   he  saw  black  dust 
Float  on  the  bubbles  of  that  brimming  bowl, 
He  drew  a  breath  and  took  his  life  in  trust, 

And  plungeu  he-ad  foremost  into  that  black  pit, 
Where  floating  cargo  bumped  against  the  beams. 
He  groped  a  choking  passage  blind  with  grit, 
The  roaring  in  his  ears  was  shot  with  screams. 

So,  with  a  bursting  heart  and  roaring  ears 
He  floundered  in  that  sunk  ship's  inky  womb, 
Drowned  in  deep  water  for  what  seemed  like  years, 
Buried  alive  and  groping  through  the  tomb, 


And  instantly  a  panic  took  the  crew, 
Even  the  digger  blenched  ;   his  knife-blade's  haste 
Cutting  the  solder  witnessed  that  he  knew 
Time  on  the  brink  with  not  a  breath  to  waste. 


THE  RIVER  159 

Till  suddenly  the  beams  against  his  back 
Gave,  and  the  water  on  his  eyes  was  bright ; 
He  shot  up  through  a  hatchway  foul  with  wrack 
Into  clean  air  and  life  and  dazzling  light, 

And  striking  out,  he  saw  the  fo'c'sle  gone, 
Vanished,  below  the  water,  and  the  mast 
Standing  columnar  from  the  sea ;   it  shone 
Proud,  with  its  colours  flying  to  the  last. 

And  all  about,  a  many-wrinkled  tide 

Smoothed  and  erased  its  eddies,  wandering  chilled, 

Like  glutted  purpose,  trying  to  decide 

If  its  achievement  had  been  what  it  willed. 

And  men  in  boats  were  there ;   they  helped  him  in. 
He  gulped  for  breath  and  watched  that  patch  of  smooth, 
Shaped  like  the  vessel,  wrinkle  into  grin, 
Furrow  to  waves  and  bare  a  yellow  tooth. 

Then  the  masts  leaned  until  the  shroud-screws  gave. 
All  disappeared  —  her  masts,  her  colours,  all. 
He  saw  the  yardarms  tilting  to  the  grave ; 
He  heard  the  siren  of  a  tugboat  call, 

And  saw  her  speeding,  foaming  at  the  bow, 
Bringing  the  blast-charge  that  had  come  too  late. 
He  heard  one  shout,  "It  isn't  wanted  now." 
Time's  minute-hand  had  been  the  hand  of  Fate. 


160  SALT-WATER  POEMS 

Then  the  boats  turned  ;  they  brought  him  to  the  shore. 
Men  crowded  round  him,  touched  him,  and  were  kind; 
The  Mate  walked  with  him,  silent,  to  the  store. 
He  said,  "We've  left  the  best  of  us  behind." 

Then,  as  he  wrung  his  sodden  clothes,  the  Mate 
Gave  him  a  drink  of  rum,  and  talked  awhile 
Of  men  and  ships  and  unexpected  Fate ; 
And  darkness  came  and  cloaked  the  river's  guile, 

So  that  its  huddled  hurry  was  not  seen, 
Only  made  louder,  till  the  full  moon  climbed 
Over  the  forest,  floated,  and  was  queen. 
Within  the  town  a  temple-belfry  chimed. 

Then,  upon  silent  pads,  a  tiger  crept 
Down  to  the  river-brink,  and  crouching  there 
Watched  it  intently,  till  you  thought  he  slept 
But  for  his  ghastly  eye  and  stiffened  hair. 

Then,  trembling  at  a  lust  more  fell  than  his, 
He  roared  and  bounded  back  to  coverts  lone, 
Where,  among  moonlit  beauty,  slaughter  is, 
Filling  the  marvellous  night  with  myriad  groan. 


GLOSSARY 

Abaft  the  beam.  —  That  half  of  a  ship  included  between  her  amid- 
ship  section  and  the  taffrail.  (For  '  taffrail,'  see  below.) 

Abel  Brown.  —  An  unquotable  sea-song. 

Advance-note.  —  A  note  for  one  month's  wages  issued  to  sailors  on 
their  signing  a  ship's  articles. 

Belaying-pins.  —  Bars  of  iron  or  hard  wood  to  which  running  rigging 

may  be  secured  or  belayed. 

Belaying-pins,  from  their  handiness  and  peculiar  club-shape, 

are  sometimes  used  as  bludgeons. 
Bloody.  —  An  intensive  derived   from  the  substantive   '  blood,'   a 

name  applied  to  the  Bucks,  Scowrers,  and  Mohocks  of  the  seven- 
teenth and  eighteenth  centuries. 
Blue  Peter.  —  A  blue  and  white  flag  hoisted  at  the  foretrucks  of 

ships  about  to  sail. 
Bollard.  —  From  bol  or  bole,  the  round  trunk  of  a  tree.     A  phallic 

or  '  sparklet  '-shaped  ornament  of  the  dockside,  of  assistance  to 

mariners  in  warping  into  or  out  of  dock. 
Bonded  Jacky.  —  Negro-head  tobacco  or  sweet  cake. 
Bull  of  Barney.  —  A  beast  mentioned  in  an  unquotable  sea-proverb. 
Bumpkin.  —  An  iron  bar  (projecting  out-board  from  the  ship's  side) 

to  which  the  lower  and  topsail  brace  blocks  are  sometimes  hooked. 

Cape  Horn  fever.  —  The  illness  proper  to  malingerers. 

Catted.  —  Said  of  an  anchor  when  weighed  and  secured  to  the  '  cat- 
head.' 

Chanty.  —  A  song  sung  to  lighten  labour  at  the  capstan  sheets,  and 
halliards.     The  soloist  is  known  as  the  chanty-man,  and  is  usually 
a  person  of  some  authority  in  the  fo'c's'le.     Many  chanties  are  of 
great  beauty  and  extreme  antiquity, 
if  161 


162  GLOSSARY 

Clipper-bow.  —  A  bow  of  delicate  curves  and  lines. 

Clout.  —  A  rag  or  cloth.     Also  a  blow :  —  'I  fetched  him  a  clout  i' 

the  lug.' 
Crimp.  —  A  sort  of  scoundrelly  land-shark  preying  upon  sailors. 

D.B.S.  —  Distressed  British  Sailor.     A  term  applied  to  those  who 

are  invalided  home  from  foreign  ports. 
Dungaree.  —  A  cheap,  rough,  thin  cloth  (generally  blue  or  brown), 

woven,  I  am  told,  of  coco-nut  fibre. 

Forward  or  Forrard.  —  Towards  the  bows. 

Fo'c's'le  (Forecastle).  —  The  deck-house  or  living-room  of  the  crew. 
The  word  is  often  used  to  indicate  the  crew,  or  those  members  of  it 
described  by  passengers  as  the  '  common  sailors.' 

Fore-stay.  —  A  powerful  wire  rope  supporting  the  foremast  forward. 

Gaskets.  —  Ropes  or  plaited  lines  used  to  secure  the  sails  in  furling. 

Goneys.  —  Albatrosses. 

Guffy.  —  A  marine  or  jolly. 

Gullies.  —  Sea-gulls,  Cape  Horn  pigeons,  etc. 

Heave  and  pawl.  —  A  cry  of  encouragement  at  the  capstan. 
Hooker.  —  A  periphrasis  for  ship,  I  suppose  from  a  ship's  carrying 
hooks  or  anchors. 

Jack  or  Jackstay.  —  A  slender  iron  rail  running  along  the  upper 
portions  of  the  yards  in  some  ships. 

Leeward.  —  Pronounced  { looard.'  That  quarter  to  which  the  wind 
blows. 

Mainsail  haul.  —  An  order  in  tacking  ship  bidding  '  swing  the  main- 
yards.'  To  loot,  steal,  or  '  acquire.' 

Main-shrouds.  —  Ropes,  usually  wire,  supporting  lateral  strains  upon 
the  mainmast. 

Mollies.  —  Molly-hawks,  or  Fulmar  petrels.  Wide-winged  dusky 
sea-fowls,  common  in  high  latitudes,  oily  to  taste,  gluttonous. 
Great  fishers  and  garbage-eaters. 


GLOSSARY  163 

Port  Mahon  Baboon,  or  Port  Mahon  Soger.  —  I  have  been  unable  to 
discover  either  the  origin  of  these  insulting  epithets  or  the  reasons 
for  the  peculiar  bitterness  with  which  they  sting  the  marine 
recipient.  They  are  older  than  Dana  (circe  1840). 

An  old  merchant  sailor,  now  dead,  once  told  me  that  Port 
Mahon  was  that  godless  city  from  which  the  Ark  set  sail,  in  which 
case  the  name  may  have  some  traditional  connection  with  that 
evil  '  Mahoun  '  or  '  Mahu,'  prince  of  darkness,  mentioned  by 
Shakespeare  and  some  of  our  older  poets. 

The  real  Port  Mahon,  a  fine  harbour  in  Minorca,  was  taken  by 
the  French,  from  Admiral  Byng,  in  the  year  1756. 

I  think  that  the  phrases  originated  at  the  time  of  Byng's  con- 
sequent trial  and  execution. 
Purchase.  —  See  '  Tackle.' 

Quidding.  —  Tobacco-chewing. 

Sails.  —  The  sail-maker. 

Santa  Cruz.  —  A  brand  of  rum. 

Scantling.  —  Planks. 

Soger.  —  A  laggard,  malingerer,  or  hang-back.     To  loaf  or  skulk 

or  work  Tom  Coz's  Traverse. 
Spunyarn.  —  A  three-strand  line  spun  out  of  old  rope-yarn  knotted 

together.     Most  sailing-ships  carry  a  spunyarn  winch,  and  the 

spinning  of  such  yarn  is  a  favourite  occupation  in  fine  weather. 
Stirrup.  —  A  short  rope   supporting  the  foot-rope  on   which   the 

sailors  stand  when  aloft  on  the  yards. 

Tack.  —  To  stay  or  'bout  ship.  A  reach  to  windward.  The  weather 
lower  corner  of  a  course. 

Tackle.  —  Pronounced  taykle.  A  combination  of  pulleys  for  obtain- 
ing of  artificial  power. 

Taffrail.  —  The  rail  or  bulwark  round  the  sternmost  end  of  a  ship's 
poop  or  after-deck. 

Trick.  —  The  ordinary  two-hour  spell  at  the  wheel  or  on  the  look-out. 

Windward  or  Weather.  —  That  quarter  from  which  the  wind  blows. 


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